Gilligan's Wave
by callensensei
Summary: The social event of the season will either be the Howells' upcoming party or a major natural disaster.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Sherwood Schwartz caught the original wave, not me.

**Gilligan's Wave**

_Men say it was a stolen tide_

_The Lord that sent it, He knows all_

_But in mine ears doth still abide_

_The message that the bells let fall_

_And there was naught of strange beside_

_The flight of mews and pewits pied_

_By millions crouched on the old sea wall._

-Jean Ingelow, "High Tide Off the Coast of Lincolnshire"

The subtle scent of vanilla and jasmine wafted on the night breeze as the island stirred in its sleep. From the distant beach the surf moaned a haunting lullaby. In the castaways' camp, in the shadows of the crew's hut, two hammocks rocked ever so gently, like boats on a calm sea.

"Skipper – why's it called cricket?"

"Gilligan…go to sleep."

"Why would they name a game after a bug?"

From his berth in the lower hammock Skipper Jonas Grumby resisted the urge to tip his first mate out of the upper one. He gave a great sigh, trying to hold back his frustration. It was like trying to stop a wave. "It's not named after the bug, Gilligan. At least I don't think it is. It's just got the same name, all right? It's kind of like baseball."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now look, I know you're all excited about Mrs. Howell's party and Mr. Howell's cricket match, but staying up all night talking about it isn't going to make next Saturday come any faster. We'll talk about it in the morning, all right? Now go to sleep!"

"Okay, Skipper," came the meek answer from above.

The Skipper counted. One minute, two, three…

"We used to play baseball all the time in the big diamond behind the school back home. Skinny Mulligan was the best catcher ever. I mean, Fatso Flannigan and Bobby McGuire and Jimmy O'Hara were pretty good, but Skinny Mulligan was the best of all. He never missed!"

The Skipper reached up and plucked at the arm above him. In a moment the guileless face of his first mate was looking down at him, dark hair framed in the white sailor's cap. "Gilligan, never mind about Skinny Mulligan, will you? Just go to sleep!"

"Sorry, Skipper." Gilligan rolled back, and his hammock swung a little more widely. The far off surf boomed a little louder in the stillness.

The Skipper shook his head. "Mulligan, Flannigan, McGuire, O'Hara and you. Your neighbourhood must have been a riot on St. Patrick's Day."

"Hmmm?"

"Never mind."

This time the silence lasted five minutes. Then…

"Those are pretty funny looking uniforms for baseball, aren't they, Skipper? They look like something you'd wear to a tea party."

"Gilligan…"

"Boy, Mr. Howell was sure excited when that trunk from that Indian ship washed ashore. I couldn't see what the big deal was: just a lot of white clothes and fat white sticks and balls. But Mr. Howell said it's a gentleman's game and they play it in England and all over the old British Empire. He said there was a whole set of polo mallets too, only we don't have any horses."

"_Gilligan_…"

"Gosh, those British people sure do get dressed up nice just to play ball. Won't those clothes get all dirty when we slide?"

"GILLIGAN!" The Skipper clutched the edges of his swinging hammock in frustration. Above him, Gilligan jumped. "Will you cut that out? And for your information, you don't slide in cricket!"

"You don't?"

"No!"

"Well, what happens if I'm running for home and I'm going to get tagged?"

"You're gonna have to run for home in a minute if you don't stop…" The Skipper's voice petered out as both sailors suddenly realized their hammocks were swinging wider than ever – and now the candle-holder on the table and the gourds on the cabinet were clattering. The deep rumble they heard now was clearly not the boom of the surf.

Gilligan clutched his hammock with white fingers. "Skipper – I'm getting seasick!"

"We're on dry land, Gilligan!"

"Then tell it to stop pitching and rolling!"

The bamboo cabinet toppled over with a crash. The Skipper and Gilligan held on for dear life as the tall poles that held their hammocks started swinging like windshield wipers.

"Skipper! This hammock's gonna capsize! I want my lifejacket!"

"Gilligan!"

"Skipper!"

Suddenly the ground heaved in a terrific upward thrust, popping the hammocks up like toast from a toaster. The Skipper landed first, hitting the ground with a tremendous "oof." He oofed again a few seconds later when Gilligan landed on him. Too terrified to move, the two held absolutely still as the little hut rocked around them.

When at last the tremors subsided and all was still again, Gilligan looked down at the Skipper and gave a great gasp of relief. "Gee, thanks, Skipper! You're as good a catcher as Skinny Mulligan!"


	2. Chapter 2

Beneath the morning sun forty different shades of green glimmered on the lovely isle, from the emerald of the lush grass to the olive of the leafy jungle. Something else on the island shone spectacular black-and-blue, but thanks to the Skipper's modesty, did not see the light of day.

The Skipper and Gilligan came out of their hut, the Skipper stiff and holding his hip. "Oh! I don't know if I can sit down, Gilligan. I must have a bruise the size of New York State back here!"

Gilligan glanced at the Skipper's stern. "I don't think New York State's big enough, Skipper. Probably more like Texas."

"Very funny!"

The communal table was set for breakfast, with bowls of papayas and pineapples and garlands of sweet-scented kamani. Gilligan took up a spray of the delicate white flowers. "Well, Mary Ann's up, anyway. I wonder where everybody else is?"

"Probably too bruised to get out of bed, I'd say. I wouldn't blame them."

"You're not far off, Skipper," came a soft, sultry voice, and Ginger appeared in her silver lame gown, not wafting as gracefully as usual. She grimaced as she sat carefully at one of the empty places. "I didn't notice it so much last night, but I'm sure noticing it now. You boys won't be seeing my wiggle for a while."

The Skipper's face fell. "Oh, that's too bad! I mean – ep – ep - I mean are you all right, Ginger?"

"Sure." Ginger smiled a little painfully. "I should be used to this by now. Still, gee whiz! In California we used to have tremors, but nothing like last night! It felt like San Andreas was right under my bed!"

"Oh, yeah? Too bad he wasn't, Ginger, 'cause maybe he could have broken your fall," said Gilligan.

"Who could have?" said Ginger, puzzled.

"Your Mexican friend. San Andreas."

The Skipper rolled his eyes. "That's San Andreas Fault, Gilligan."

"Aw, come on, Skipper. How could it be his fault if he wasn't here? I'm sure he would have caught Ginger if he was."

The Skipper gave Ginger a look as if to say, _don't even try_.

Ginger gave the Skipper a look as if to say, _don't worry._ "Thanks for checking on us afterwards anyhow. We were both pretty shook up – pardon the pun."

"I'll say we were!" From the way Mary Ann was walking, it seemed as though the breadfruit muffins and coffee pot on her tray must have weighed a hundred pounds. Gilligan managed to rescue it from her and set it safely on the table as she slumped into a chair. "Uhnn…thanks, Gilligan. Morning, everyone."

"My gosh, Mary Ann, what's wrong?" asked the Skipper. "You both seemed okay when Gilligan and I left you last night!"

She crooked a half-hearted smile. "Oh, I'm all right, Skipper. I'm not bruised – just tired. I just couldn't get to sleep last night after you and Gilligan left. I kept waiting for the fun to start all over again!" She looked up at her two sailor friends. "Thanks for coming in to see that we were all right. How are you two feeling this morning?"

"I'm fine," said Gilligan. "I got real lucky."

"You did?"

"Yeah. When we fell out of our hammocks, I landed on the Skipper. It was just like falling into one of those great big inflatable life-rafts we had in the navy. I haven't got a mark on me!"

The Skipper's fingers quivered, but he kept them away from his hat with Herculean will. "Let's just keep it that way, okay, little buddy?"

"Hmmm?"

Mary Ann decided it was time to run interference. Sitting up, she started pouring the coffee all 'round. "Come on, everybody, dig in. These muffins are best when they're fresh."

"Ep - shouldn't we wait for the others?" the Skipper asked.

"Oh…" Mary Ann suddenly remembered. "The Professor might be a bit late. I just found this note pinned to the supply hut." She fished a paper out of the pocket of skirt. "He says he left early to check on an experiment and he's not sure whether he'll make it back for breakfast. I've set a place for him just in case, but there's no point in you waiting."

"What about the Howells?" asked Ginger. "I couldn't believe it when you fellows told us they'd actually slept right through those fireworks last night!"

"Like babies," said Gilligan. "Mr. Howell turned over at one point and mumbled something about treasury bills and the gold standard, but that was it."

Mary Ann chuckled. "Sounds as though the smell of breakfast isn't going to be enough to wake them, then! Come on, you know the Howells by now. They can't be hurried for love or money!" She grinned impishly. "Well…maybe money. Anyhow, just get started. I made plenty."

Gilligan didn't need to be told twice. He slung himself onto the centre of the bench with the ease of an acrobat, while the Skipper lowered himself onto the bench's end as though it were a saddle on a particularly angry bronco. He finally made contact, wincing and grimacing.

Gilligan was concerned. "Gee, Skipper, do you want me to get you a pillow?"

Now the girls were concerned too. "Skipper, are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Gilligan shook his head and looked towards the Skipper's backside. "Deep in the heart of Texas."

The Skipper's brow darkened ominously as Ginger peered at the first mate. "Gilligan, when you fell out of your hammock last night, did you land on your head?"

"No, Ginger, on the Skipper, like I said. Boy, was I lucky. He saved my life!"

The Skipper raised his eyebrows. "Gilligan, little buddy, I didn't save your life. Falling out of your hammock wouldn't have killed you."

"Yeah, but you landing on me would have! They'd have had to scrape me off the floor!"

"They will yet if you don't pipe down! Here!" The Skipper grabbed a muffin and stuffed it into Gilligan's mouth like a cork in a barrel. "Stow your gab and eat your breakfast – and that's an order!"

"Mmm – mmm, mmm," mumbled Gilligan sulkily, with a mock-salute.

At that moment the red-curtained French doors of the Howell hut swung open and the lord and lady of the island came swanning out, both resplendent in white. Both were clad in white cricket shirts and vests, and Mrs. Howell had teamed hers with a long, pleated white skirt to match her husband's white trousers. Thurston was even wearing the tall shin guards and cap, and brandished a large, white cricket bat. "Egad! Oh, to be in England, now that April's there! What a beautiful morning for a practice run at the pitch, Lovey! I feel as though I were back at Lord's."

"I feel as though I were back at Harrod's," Mrs. Howell murmured dreamily. "Our first new clothes in ages! What a perfect time for a garden party!" The couple strolled up and seated themselves next to Ginger. "Good morning, everyone!" Mrs. Howell looked at Gilligan, then at the platter of muffins. "Those muffins must be delicious, Gilligan. You certainly seem to be enjoying them!"

"Yes, my boy," teased Mr. Howell. "You couldn't wait for us, eh?"

Gilligan looked like a chipmunk storing up for a long winter. He chewed vigorously and swallowed. "Skipper's orders," he said dryly.

Mrs. Howell nodded in approval. "Oh, he must have thought you looked hungry. That's so kind of you, Captain. Always looking out for the dear boy."

The Skipper gave a wry smile. "That's what a Skipper does, Mrs. Howell. By the way: are you two all right? You were sound asleep last night when Gilligan and I checked in on you."

Thurston Howell chuckled. "That was very kind of you, Captain, but aren't bed checks taking things a bit far? Do you want to know whether we said our prayers too?"

"I wish you had, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan. "Maybe then we wouldn't have had that earthquake last night!"

"Great heavens, so that's what it was!" cried the millionaire. "I was afraid I'd taken too much brandy after dinner and couldn't remember the party. Our little hut is a shambles!"

"Oh, I do hope we don't have any more earthquakes before our garden party!" cried his wife. "They'll disarrange all my decorations. And however shall I write my invitations? The ink will go all squiggly."

"I'd say that's the least of our worries, Mrs. Howell," said the Skipper.

"Oh, Captain, au contraire! One can't send out slovenly invitations! I can't even bear the thought of the stamps being misaligned!"

The Skipper looked puzzled. "Stamps? Mrs. Howell, we haven't even got a post office."

Ginger smiled. "We could always play post office."

"Oh yeah?" Gilligan was intrigued. "I've never played that game before. Sounds like fun."

Ginger's smile broadened. "Oh, it is, Gilligan. It is."

"Could you coach me?"

The Skipper decided this had gone far enough. "Have another muffin, Gilligan," he urged, shoving another one in Gilligan's mouth.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Howell. "The dear boy is awfully fond of those."

"But you're absolutely right, Lovey," said Mr. Howell, determined to bring the conversation back under control. "Nothing can be permitted to interfere with the success of our venture. Why, we've already found the ideal site for the green: a lovely flat expanse on the west side of the island. Lovey and I have golfed there many a time."

"Oh, it's so picturesque!" cried Mrs. Howell. "Just below a lovely green hill, with the mountains beyond.

Gilligan gulped down the last of his second muffin. "You mean that place where I was caddying for you, Mr. Howell, and had to go all the way back to camp for the papaya juice?"

"Yes, my boy, that's the spot."

Gilligan's dark eyebrows rose. "It's kinda far from here, isn't it?"

"I daresay it is, Gilligan, but this side of the island is simply overrun with undergrowth - rather like the garden at our house in Long Island after the gardener discovered the back door to our wine cellar. In any case, cricket requires a wide, flat field."

"Oh, yeah, I get it. Like a baseball diamond."

"Precisely." Mr. Howell looked around imperiously, as though mustering the troops. Now we'll all have to pool our efforts: marking the field, practicing our runs and bowls…"

"Preparing the food and the entertainment," finished his wife. "It's going to be such fun!"

"By Jove, yes!" Thurston beamed. "The first annual Howell Garden Party and Cricket Match will be the major event of the season!"

"We're going to have a major event, all right, but that won't be it. I wish it were."

The castaways turned as one as the Professor emerged from the jungle carrying a small white tube of paper. The seat at the head of the table remained empty as the Professor remained standing. His handsome features were grave.

"Whatever do you mean, Professor?" demanded Thurston Howell. "Whatever could compete with a gathering of such sophistication and style?"

"I do hope we're all invited," said Mrs. Howell hopefully.

"Oh, we are, Mrs. Howell," the Professor said dryly. "Here's our invitation."

The Professor held up a narrow slip of paper about four feet long. Along its centre was a faint, broken horizontal line, and running the length of the paper was a bolder, solid, jagged line that cut back and forth across the broken line like stitching.

Gilligan stared at the strange script. "Boy, Professor. I've heard that doctor's handwriting is bad, but professors' handwriting is even worse. How'd you ever give all those lectures?"

"This isn't writing, Gilligan, it's the readout from my seismometer. Do you all realize what this means?"

Thurston Howell smiled. "Of course we do, Professor. We're not all as naïve as our dear young friend here."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it."

The millionaire pointed to the rising and falling angles. "Now Gilligan, my boy, pay attention. That bold black line is your stock price. When it dips far enough below the horizontal you buy, and then when it rises to its highest crest, you sell. You'll make a killing, my boy!"

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Howell!"

"Mr. Howell! Please!" The Professor fumed. "This is serious!"

"Why, so am I, Professor! How is the boy ever going to build a strong portfolio if—"

"Howell! Gilligan! Pipe down and let the Professor talk!" The Skipper glared at Mr. Howell, who sulked a little, then turned to Gilligan and held up a third muffin. Gilligan set his lips together and shrank back, silent. Satisfied, the Skipper turned back to the scientist. "Now you go ahead, Professor."

"Thank you, Skipper." The Professor took a deep breath. "Now, as I was about to say, a seismometer is a device that measures earth tremors. I created a makeshift model when I was monitoring the activity of our volcano."

"How does it work, Professor?" asked Ginger.

"Oh, it's a very simple device, Ginger. Just a long bamboo pole driven into the earth with a container holding a long roll of paper, like this one. The paper is attached to a stone that slowly unwinds the roll. I made this broken horizontal line myself: it represents a period of calm, where there is no seismic activity. A pencil in a little holder just above the paper makes this sold bold line. When the pole is jiggled by earth tremors, the line becomes jagged. The more jagged the line, the greater the seismic activity." The Professor held up the long slip of paper again. Now every peak and valley took on an ominous cast.

"Look at the size of these striations. I'm convinced we are in for a major earthquake!"

The cowed castaways looked at one another in alarm. "Like the one we had last night, Professor?" Mary Ann whispered.

"If the indications on my seismometer are correct, Mary Ann, last night's quake wasn't a tenth of what the coming one will be. In layman's terms, what happened last night was a waltz, and what's going to happen will be…

"Shake, rattle and roll," murmured Gilligan, and they all shivered.


	3. Chapter 3

Right after breakfast, the Professor sent Gilligan to cut bamboo poles for part of their "emergency preparations." Not long after, the Skipper, puffing steam like an angry tugboat, was about to go after him.

"Where is Gilligan? He should have been back ages ago!"

"I'll go get him, Skipper," said Mary Ann hurriedly. "You just finish up what you've go to do." She knew the valley where they normally harvested bamboo, and quickly made her way along the well-marked jungle trail.

A native of the prairies, Mary Ann was constantly amazed by the island. When she finally emerged from the thick jungle, she sighed in wonder at the soaring velvet green mountains, fold upon fold, that sheltered the narrow valley. Crystal ribbons of water wound their way down from the misty heights to vanish in the lush greenery below. Birdsong filled the air like an ode to joy.

At last Mary Ann spotted the telltale red shirt and white hat near a stand of young bamboo. The first mate was crouched on the ground, tying off a cord of freshly hewn bamboo poles. Mary Ann rushed over. "Gilligan! There you are!"

Gilligan turned as he finished the last vine square knot. "Hi, Mary Ann. What are you doing out here?"

"I came to bring you back to camp. The Skipper's getting awfully impatient for that bamboo."

Gilligan stood up with a snort of frustration. "How do you like that? I came out here and started cutting bamboo as fast as I could! Who does the Skipper think I am, Paul Bunman or something?"

Mary Ann's lip quirked up for an instant. "I think you mean Paul Bunyan."

"Oh. Oh yeah."

"Gilligan, I know you haven't been gone long, but the Skipper's pretty on edge about this whole earthquake preparation. He's been running around like a turkey in a barnyard the day before Thanksgiving!"

Gilligan's ire evaporated with a knowing smile. "Yeah – it figures. Don't get me wrong, Mary Ann: the Skipper's the bravest man I ever knew. But I guess it can't be easy, feeling responsible for everybody."

"Guess not." Mary Ann shivered. "I don't mind telling you, Gilligan, I'm pretty on edge myself! To think that at any moment the earth could just open and swallow us up!"

Gilligan gulped and jumped backwards from the imaginary fissure that gaped at his feet. Only when he saw that the ground was still whole did he breathe a sigh of relief. "I gotta admit it – I'm scared too, Mary Ann. But as long as we do what the Professor says, we should be okay…" he paused, eyes flicking away in a moment of doubt, "…I think."

"That's what I mean. It's all so uncertain! If we were back home in Kansas, at least we could run to the root cellar!"

Gilligan stared. "Root cellar? How can you hide from an earthquake in—" his eyes suddenly flew wide in understanding. "Oh, you mean the tornadoes! Like in the Wizard of Oz! Boy, you must have to be brave to live in Kansas!"

"Brave? Oh, I wish I were, Gilligan." She shivered again, rubbing her arms. "I wish I could be like the Howells and Ginger. They don't seem scared."

Gilligan raised a dubious eyebrow. "Maybe they should be. My grandmother always used to say," and he hunched over and croaked in a reedy soprano, "'Anybody who isn't jumpy when it makes good sense to be jumpy is just a blamed fool!'"

Mary Ann smiled. "Your grandmother sounds like a very wise old lady. Thanks, Gilligan."

Suddenly they heard a loud cawing from the edge of the jungle, and Gilligan held out his wrist with a welcoming smile. "Hey! What are you looking so worried about? If there's an earthquake, at least you can fly over it!"

Mary Ann turned to see what he was looking at. What seemed like a living flash of flame burst from the greenery, sailed through the air, and landed on the cuff of Gilligan's sleeve.

"Hey, boy," murmured Gilligan.

"Oh, my gosh," whispered Mary Ann.

A bird was sitting on Gilligan's wrist: a bird like no other Mary Ann had ever seen. It was only about the size of a crow, but its bright yellow and green head, powder blue beak, orange body and magnificent tail of long scarlet plumes were like something out of the Arabian Nights. It cocked its head curiously at the girl as Gilligan scratched its breast feathers gently.

"Oh, Gilligan! What _is_ that?"

The first mate grinned with pride. "He's a Raggiana Bird of Paradise. Pretty swell name for such a little guy, huh?"

"I'll say. I've never heard of one before!"

"Me neither, until he showed up a few weeks ago. I showed him to the Professor and we looked him up in one of the Professor's books."

"Are there many of them on the island?"

"Nope. They're not from around here. The Professor says he must have been blown off course by a big storm." Gilligan smiled ruefully at her. "Kind of like us, I guess."

"He looks like he has long red hair!"

"Yeah. If he were a girl, I could have called him Ginger."

Mary Ann chuckled. "What do you call him?"

"Rusty. I had this friend back home: Rusty O'Boyle. When he and his whole family used to sit in the front bleachers at a ball game it was like looking down at a pumpkin patch."

"I can just picture it!" Mary Ann chuckled again, then sighed a little, looking wistfully at the bird. "It's funny. Would you believe I used to have a pet bird named Rusty too?"

Gilligan's blue eyes widened in delighted surprise. "No kidding? What was he? A budgie? A parakeet?

She shook her head, laughing. "A rooster."

"Oh, yeah, it figures! On the farm!"

"Yes. He used to strut around as if he owned the place. He even used to chase my dog Jack if he got too near the hens!"

Gilligan raised his eyebrows. "Gee, I've heard of bird dogs, but that's ridiculous!"

They both laughed for a moment. Then Gilligan looked down at the bird, and back at Mary Ann. "Mary Ann, would you like to pet him? I'll bet he'd like you."

Mary Ann bit her lip and looked at the creature with great longing. "Oh, Gilligan, I'd love to! I'd be so gentle with him. But would he let me? He's wild!"

"He's not afraid of me."

"None of the wild things are," said Mary Ann quietly. "It's amazing."

"No, it's not. I just don't try to catch them, that's all. I let them come to me." Gilligan turned his hand carefully over and extended it towards her while the bird climbed delicately into his palm. She hesitated, her little hand held in the air. "Don't worry, Mary Ann. Just take it slow."

She reached out and gently scratched the bird's breast feathers, marveling at its delicate beauty. When the creature continued to sit quite still, Mary Ann broke into a smile of wonder and tentatively reached up to stroke the shimmering wing. Her fingers brushed Gilligan's hand.

"Oh, it's so wonderful to touch him! And he doesn't try to get away!"

"Told you so. He trusts you. He knows you won't hurt him."

She smiled, fingers brushing Gilligan's hand again. "I'd like to think he knows."

Suddenly the bird stood up and bowed down, spreading its wings. Mary Ann drew her hand back as the bird reared its tail plumes into a scarlet Mohawk headdress over its back. Soon it was hopping madly up and down, cawing all the while in a performance so bizarre that the two humans burst into laughter.

"Gilligan, what's he doing?"

"Rusty! What's the big idea? Stop flirting with Mary Ann!"

"What?"

Gilligan grinned. "He's doing his mating dance. Isn't it a riot?"

The two castaways howled as the bird bounced and kicked and cavorted like a showgirl in a Las Vegas review. Only when it finally settled down, ruffling its stormy red feathers back into place, could either human catch their breath. Mary Ann wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. "Well, thank you, Rusty! You sure know how to flatter a girl!"

"Rusty, you're too much! What a wise guy!"

"I think he's sweet." She looked up at the first mate. "And so are you, Gilligan. I really needed that after this morning." Suddenly she gasped. "Oh golly – I forgot! I'm supposed to be bringing you back to camp!"

"Oh, yeah!" Gilligan popped the bird onto his hat as he bent to lift the cord of bamboo onto his back. When he straightened again, Rusty hopped back down onto his shoulder. "All right, Rusty. You can come along too. Well, come on, Mary Ann. We better get going before the Skipper's got so much steam coming out of his ears he looks like a Chinese laundry!"

Together they left the misty valley, their fond laughter fading amid the birdsong and falling water.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Howell peered furtively through the red-curtain French doors before she let Ginger slip inside. "Oh, Ginger, this so much fun! I feel positively criminal! Are you quite certain the Captain and the Professor can't hear us?"

"Not a chance, Mrs. Howell," said Ginger. She gave her older friend a conspiratorial wink as she hurried to the vanity table and set down the small stack of cardboard-encased record albums she was carrying. "They've both gone off to the clearing with the toolbox and all kinds of other things. Looks like they'll be making so much noise they'd never hear us anyhow!"

"Tools? Whatever are they building?"

Ginger shrugged. "I don't know. The Professor said something about a simulator, whatever that is. I dated a pilot who trained in a simulator once, but I don't think it's the same thing."

"Well, whatever it is, at least it should keep them occupied while we prepare our musical entertainment. And dear Thurston's promised to keep a lookout and warn us in case they return unexpectedly."

"I certainly hope so," said Ginger. "I'd feel awful if the Professor caught me here and I hadn't gotten the bandages rolled like I promised."

Mrs. Howell threw up her gloved hands in a gesture of dismissal. "Oh, pooh! There'll be plenty of time for that, and Thurston and I can gather those silly conch shells in no time at all. But if we don't practice our music, we'll never be ready in time for the party!"

" I'm ready when you are, Mrs. Howell."

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Howell hurried over to the cocophone with its ship's wheel turntable and eagerly turned the crank. "Now here's the first selection I thought you might perform for the program. It's the very thing for a garden party."

"Okay, Mrs. Howell," said Ginger, hands poised on her hips as she prepared to listen carefully.

Mrs. Howell placed the needle on the record. Music warbled from the woofer and tweeter as Mrs. Howell sang in a coloratura soprano:

_How many kinds of sweet flowers grow  
In an English country garden?  
We'll tell you now of some that we know  
Those we miss you'll surely pardon  
Daffodils, heart's ease and flox  
Meadowsweet and lady smocks  
Gentain, lupine and tall hollihocks  
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots  
In an English country garden._

She lifted the needle and looked up at the actress, smiling brightly. "What do you think, Ginger? Isn't it delightful?"

Ginger wondered how to put this kindly. "Well, it's…sweet, Mrs. Howell. It really is. Uh…I'm not sure it's quite my style, though. Maybe you ought to sing that one."

Mrs. Howell's eyes shone. "Oh, how splendid! Yes, yes, absolutely! I'll sing all three verses!"

"Three verses?"

"Oh, yes, there's this one about the flowers, one about the birds, and one about the little insects!"

Ginger's eyebrows rose. "A verse about the little insects? Well…sounds perfect for a garden party on this island, Mrs. Howell. We're probably see plenty of them!" She tried hard to keep a straight face. "So…what about the other songs you're thinking of?"

Mrs. Howell flipped through her own stack of albums next to the phonograph. "Now let me see: there's "Early One Morning," "The Foggy Foggy Dew," "Blow the Man Down..."

"I kind of like the sound of that last one," said Ginger with a smile.

"Oh, yes, dear, but I thought we might ask the dear Captain to sing that song. It is a sea chanty, after all."

The smile faded. "Oh."

"And he does have such a fine, light baritone. What about this one?" and Mrs. Howell placed another album on the turntable. In a few moments she launched into,

_All things bright and beautiful  
All creatures great and small  
All things wise and wonderful  
The Lord God made them all._

Ginger's hand flew to her mouth as she struggled to keep her composure. It was a close fight, but Ginger was a pro. "I don't know, Mrs. Howell. A song about animals sounds more in Gilligan's line than mine."

Mrs. Howell frowned. "Quite right, dear. And perhaps a trifle too stuffy for our party." She suddenly caught herself and laughed. "The song, I mean, not Gilligan."

"Of course. Oh, I'm sure we wouldn't want any stuffy songs at this party, Mrs. Howell!" Ginger took a deep breath and prepared to take the plunge. "Um…I've been thinking about some of the numbers I know, Mrs. Howell. Maybe they'd work better – at least for me."

"Oh…well, certainly, dear. Do you have the music?"

"Sure!" Ginger's long fingers sorted through the stack of albums on the table. "I was working the nightclub circuit in Waikiki just before we sailed. I brought all kinds of music. Here - " and she slid out a case. "Tell me what you think of this one."

Mrs. Howell moved back obligingly as Ginger fitted the record onto the turntable and cranked the handle. Then the actress lowered the needle and turned, leaning back in a sultry pose.

_The minute you walked in the joint_

_I could see you were a man of distinction_

_A real big spender_

_Good looking, so refined_

_Say, wouldn't you like to know what's going on in my mind?_

Her voice stroked the notes, sensual and simmering.

_So let me get right to the point_

_I don't pop my cork for every guy I see_

_Hey, big spender,_

_Spend a little time with me._

Just then the French doors flew open as Thurston Howell the Third swept in. "Lovey, my dear—" he began, but stopped short at the sight and sound of the red-headed siren. Ginger fixed him with her glittering eyes and purred in a breathy vibrato,

_Hey, big spender,_

_Spend a little time with me._

The last notes melted into the air as Thurston Howell pulled at his suddenly too-tight collar. "W-well, well. I must say, what an unexpected pleasure! This is certainly going to be a garden party to remember!"

"Thanks, Mr. Howell," Ginger murmured.

"Perhaps it oughtn't to be _that_ memorable," said his wife, folding her arms and frowning.

Ginger sensed her cue. "Uh – well, you choose whatever songs you like, Mrs. Howell. I'm sure they'll be fine. I think I'll just go start rolling those bandages. See you later!" She picked up her records, and like a waft of perfume, slipped out.

"You know, my dear, those young people are enough to make one feel a touch of pity. Just a touch, mind" said Mr. Howell, eager to change the subject.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?"

"Well, just think of it, darling. They're all invited to two Howell social events – not one, but two – and they spend their time slaving away for Professor Van Helsing and Captain Ahab instead of entering into the spirit of the celebration. I mean really!"

"Quite right, darling. It is a pity." Mrs. Howell sighed, fluttering her silk handkerchief. "Though I'm sure the dear Captain and Professor mean well." Then her great eyelashes flew up in dismay. "My goodness, Thurston, you've left your post! You're supposed to be keeping a lookout! What if the Captain and the Professor discover us?"

He laughed. "Have no fear, my dear! We have all the time in the world. Those two are working away like busy beavers off in the clearing. And what's even better – Gilligan and Mary Ann have just returned to camp, and Gilligan's just gone to join them!"

She blinked. "But how is that better?"

Mr. Howell chuckled. "By George, I don't know why the Professor is worried about a natural disaster when we've already got one walking about in a sailor's cap. That boy will have the whole operation sabotaged before luncheon!"

"Oh, that's thoughtful of him," said Mrs. Howell. "I do require some time to practice my poetry recital this afternoon. And then there's the menus to prepare! Oh, my dear," and she sighed sadly, "Do you really think the castaways ever truly appreciate all the efforts we go to for them?"

He shook his head and pressed her hand. "I'm afraid not, Lovey, my dear. It is simply the cross we have to bear."

_The lyricists for the songs in this chapter are the following:_

"_An English Country Garden" -- Traditional_

"_All Things Bright and Beautiful" – Cecil F. Alexander_

"_Big Spender" – Cy Coleman_


	5. Chapter 5

After leaving Mary Ann at camp, Gilligan had followed Mary Ann's directions and found the Professor and the Skipper in the jungle unravelling several long, tangled lengths of vine. "Hey, Skipper, how come the two of you are way out here?"

"We got tired of waiting for you! What kept you anyway? The simulator's just about finished." The Skipper twisted some vines 'round and 'round. "There, Professor. Easy does it."

Gilligan shook his head disapprovingly as he set down his cords of bamboo. "Boy, those vines sure are a pain in the neck, aren't they? Just as sneaky as the mooring lines on the Minnow. "

The Skipper blinked. "Come again?"

"Happened every time I got ready to wind them. I'd lay the lines out on deck all nice and neat, turn my back, and when I'd turn around again they were all one big knot. I could have sworn they did it by themselves."

The Skipper threw a long-suffering look at the Professor and put down the untangled vines with a sigh. When he finally turned 'round to look at his first mate, he did a double take. "Hey - what's with the bird on your shoulder?"

"I don't know. He just felt like coming along for the ride."

"Oh, brother." An indulgent smile softened the gruff tones. "Now I know what took you so long. Gilligan, is there any animal on this island you haven't tried to make a pet out of yet?"

Gilligan raised an eyebrow. "I haven't tried the giant spiders - yet."

"What?!" The Skipper's head whipped 'round, as though he expected to see one of the colossal creepy crawlies lurching out of the jungle. "Well, er - good! Ep-ep…just stick to the birds and monkeys, little buddy!"

Gilligan permitted himself a small smile as he scratched Rusty's breast feathers. "Sure, Skipper. Anything you say."

The Professor stepped in. "Gentlemen, are we ready to proceed?"

"Proceed with what, Professor?

"Our earthquake survival drill, Gilligan. We're almost all set up. Come on: it's just through here." The Professor gestured to a trail through the bush, and the three men passed through into a large clearing, brooded over by a soaring banyan tree. In the clearing sat a long platform, roughly the shape of the deck of a small vessel. It was perched on top of a large log that acted as a fulcrum, and long vines snaked up to a large pulley that hung from a sturdy branch of the banyan. The communal table and several buckets sat on the ground nearby.

Gilligan stared, his jaw dropping. "The Mock Minnow? Oh, come on, Professor. The Skipper and I almost drowned on that thing once!"

The Skipper folded his arms. "Gilligan, that's ridiculous. What do you mean, we nearly drowned? It was all play-acting, and we were on dry land!"

"Not too dry, Skipper! You remember Ginger, when she was supposed to be playing the waves? All those buckets she sloshed on us? She could have bailed out the Titanic!"

"Oh, Gilligan! Don't worry about that, all right? There won't be any buckets this time."

"I'm afraid there will, Skipper." The Professor gestured to some buckets nearby. "Putting out fires in an emergency will also be part of our drill."

"Oh." The Skipper looked unhappily from the buckets to Gilligan. "You just leave those to me, little buddy."

"Sure, Skipper. " Gilligan missed the Skipper's sigh of relief as he turned back to the scientist. "But what's with the Mock Minnow, Professor? We used it to recreate a storm, not an earthquake."

"It's all the same principle, Gilligan. We'll simulate the rocking of the earth with this vine and pulley system, just as we simulated the rocking of the sea. We've removed the guardrails, because now the Mock Minnow will be representing the earth itself, rather than the deck of a boat, so we'll have to be extra careful than the rocking starts."

"Yeah." Gilligan shuddered. "Otherwise we'll fall off the earth!"

The Professor tried to disguise his quick snort of laughter as a cough. "Ahem - I assure you, Gilligan, we are not going to fall off the earth. However, in an earthquake, there'is always danger from falling debris. Now, if we're in our huts when the quake strikes, we should be relatively safe. The roofs and walls are made of such light-weight material that they can't harm us, even if they do collapse. But outdoors there could be falling trees and coconuts. We must learn how to protect ourselves."

The two sailors nodded. "And the buckets of water, Professor?" asked the Skipper.

Now the Professor's face grew solemn again. "One of the greatest dangers during an earthquake is the spread of fire. We must see that any candles, lanterns and campfires are put out at once, otherwise the flames may spread, and we'll be faced with a massive conflagration."

"And a mighty big fine from Smokey the Bear," murmured Gilligan.

"That's a colourful way of expressing it, Gilligan, but you're right. However, once this simulation device is finished we will all practice emergency drills, so that when the earth tremors begin, we can respond calmly and efficiently."

"Like our battle-station drills aboard the destroyer, Gilligan," said the Skipper. "Makes it seem like the real thing. " He blinked for a moment. "Uh –ep-wait a minute. On second thought, Professor, maybe Gilligan better sit this one out."

"Why?" demanded the first mate.

"Because I don't want another disaster!"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean! Remember what happened on our destroyer the last time we had battle station drill?"

Gilligan's eyes widened as the memory returned; then he frowned. "Wait a minute - that wasn't my fault!"

"Oh, sure it wasn't. You only got your foot tangled in the hauser line and went straight overboard. I had to jump in after you!"

"You didn't need to do that. I could've swum out by myself."

"Maybe so, but Admiral Walker couldn't have, and since you'd dragged him over with you I didn't have much choice, did I? It was a good thing we both left the navy when we did, otherwise he might have keel-hauled the pair of us!"

Gilligan grinned conspiratorially. "Aw, come on, Skipper. You always said Admiral Walker was a great big, over-stuffed blowhard that didn't know the foc'sle from the poop deck!"

"Gilligan—"

"And maybe if you hadn't laughed so hard 'cause his big belly was bobbing around like a beachball--"

"Gentlemen, please." The Professor's long-suffering, sad eyes said it all. "Could we save the reminiscing for another time? We have work to do!"

"What do you want us to do, Professor?" asked the Skipper.

"First of all, glue the table to the platform. It's that glue you once made from tree sap, Gilligan, so it will dissolve in three days time. But for now, we don't want the table sliding all over the deck. "

"Aye aye." Gilligan gently lifted the bird on one finger. "I've got work to do now, Rusty. "You go on and sit somewhere out of the way, okay?"

The bird gave a deep throated caw and flapped off in a billowing cascade of red to perch on a nearby bush. Gilligan and the Skipper went to pick up the long table as the Professor returned to his slide rule and papers. The two sailors lifted the table, one at each end, and started walking with the Skipper going forwards and Gilligan backwards. "Straight ahead, Gilligan. Steady as she goes!"

"Aye aye, Skipper. Just tell me when we get to—yeeikes!"

Gilligan suddenly slid out of sight under the table, and the front end came slamming down as the Skipper clutched desperately at the back end. "Doop! Gilligan!" After easing the table down as carefully as he could, the Skipper ducked underneath in search of his vanished first mate. "Gilligan? What are you doing down there?"

Gilligan rubbed his skinny backside, wincing. "Damage control, Skipper! What else? Ow! If this is how the practice feels, what's the real earthquake gonna be like?"

"What happened?" the Skipper demanded.

"I slipped on a rock back there."

"Well, why didn't you look where you were going?"

"How could I? I was going backwards! Why didn't _you_ look where I was going?"

"Oh, Gilligan!" The Skipper dragged his hand over his face as though to ward off an approaching storm. "Come on, on your feet! Make it snappy!"

"Aye aye, sir," Gilligan grumbled, climbing out from under the table. He stood at the far end and prepared to lift it again, but suddenly stopped. "Hey, wait a minute! How come I have to go backwards, anyway?"

"Because that's the way we're going, you knucklehead! The Mock Minnow is behind you!"

"But you've got the easy part! Going forwards! Why can't we switch places and you go backwards? "

The Professor called from his seat on a nearby rock. "Gentlemen, we are wasting time."

"Sorry, Professor. Oh, all right, then, Gilligan, come aft and get hold of this end." The pair changed places, Gilligan rubbing his backside gingerly. "Now," the Skipper urged as he lifted the end of the table, "Shove off!"

They began walking again, the Skipper talking all the while. "You see, Gilligan? All it takes is a little extra effort. You've got to be able to do two things at once."

"Skipper-" Gilligan began.

"Quiet, Gilligan." The table continued right on course. "You've got to stay alert when there's work to be done. You can't daydream or get distracted – by birds or whatever else it is. You've got to pay attention to what you're doing and always keep a weather eye out!"

"But Skipper!"

"Will you pipe down and listen?" The Skipper yanked at his end and upped his pace backwards. "It's the law of the sea, Gilligan! If you don't keep alert, you're sunk!"

"Look out!" Gilligan yelled.

"Doop!" The Skipper backed right into the Mock Minnow and toppled backwards, hat flying. The table clunked to the ground, pinning the Skipper by the knees as Gilligan shrank back in dismay. Nervously he edged his way up and peeped over the end of the table to see the Skipper lying sprawled on the deck, blond hair askew.

"The law of the sea, huh? Looks like it's the law of the land, too!" said the first mate.

"Oh! Gilligan! Get this thing off of me!" Gilligan picked up the end pinning the Skipper, who sat up and promptly shoved it backwards. One of the table legs came down with a thud on his foot. "Oh! Gilligan, you're a worse menace than the Bermuda Triangle!"

Racing over to pick up the Skipper's hat, Gilligan suddenly heard a loud cawing. He turned to see something orange and red swoop down to flutter wildly around the Skipper's head. The big man swatted furiously with his hands. "Ep--what in the name of—It's got my hair! Get it off of me!"

"Rusty! What's gotten into you? Shoo!" Gilligan waved the bird away. It lofted up and perched on Gilligan's sailor cap, long plumes hanging down like a red ponytail.

Meanwhile the Skipper struggled to his feet, hanging onto Gilligan's arm and nearly yanking him over in the process. At last, running his hands through his hair as if to make sure it was all there, the Skipper glared daggers at the top of Gilligan's head. "This is too much! That crazy bird tried to scalp me! He's got a hank of my hair in his beak!"

Gilligan rolled his eyes up. "He does?"

"What does he think I am anyway? A giant suet ball?"

"No, Skipper. I don't know why he—" Gilligan paused. "A giant what?"

"Suet ball," snapped the Skipper.

"What's that?"

The Skipper heaved a sigh like the rumbling of a volcano as he jammed his captain's cap back on his head. "It's a kind of bird feeder, Gilligan. A great big ball of fat."

Gilligan blinked and opened his lips to speak, but one glare from the Skipper snapped them shut again. Gilligan swallowed nervously. "Oh, come on, Skipper," he babbled with a feeble smile. "What would make him think a thing like that?"

"He's doing it because he's nesting, Skipper," the Professor called wearily.

"He's what?"

"That's a Raggiana Bird of Paradise. The male Birds of Paradise all build and decorate elaborate nests in the hope of attracting a mate, and collect all manner of strange debris to create a display. Gilligan's bird has evidently decided that your hair might attract a female."

"Hasn't so far," the Skipper grumbled _sotto voce_.

"At least he doesn't think you're a girl, Skipper," Gilligan offered. "He didn't dance for you the way he did for Mary Ann."

"Gilligan, I don't care if he does the Sailor's Hornpipe! Just keep him away from me and hoist your end of that table. Let's get it up here on deck before it kills me!"

At last they had the table perched on the Mock Minnow's slanted deck. The Skipper held his end steady against the pull of gravity. "Now hop down there and get that bucket of glue and brushes, while I keep the table from sliding off. On the double!"

Gilligan hopped down nimbly and fetched the items, Rusty still perched on his head. The bird shifted its feet, trying to get a better purchase on Gilligan's cap, and the brim slid over Gilligan's eyes. "Hey, Rusty, don't do that! How am I supposed to see where I'm going?"

"Gilligan, hurry it up! This table's heavy!"

The bellow sent Gilligan's kicked Gilligan's adrenalin into action. "Aye aye, sir!" He took a desperate step forward, slipped on another rock, and the glue and brushes flew.

In a splash worthy of Ginger's storm effects, the glue swamped the Mock Minnow's deck, including the table legs – and the Skipper's feet.

The Skipper stared, disbelieving, as the gooey mixture gleamed on his coated sneakers. He tried to lift his feet and couldn't. "Oh, no!"

Gilligan dropped the bucket, edging backwards. "Look on the bright side, Skipper! At least you won't fall overboard – not for three days, anyway!"

"Gilligan!"

The Professor sighed in unconditional surrender and put down his sliderule. "Fortunately, I brought along a bottle of Ginger's perfume. I'll have the solvent prepared in a few minutes, Skipper. Gilligan, perhaps you'd better let the Skipper and I finish this."

"Aye aye, Professor!" Gilligan's adrenalin kicked into overdrive and he fled as Rusty took off, tail feathers rippling. Red shirt and red plumage disappeared into the welcoming jungle.


	6. Chapter 6

After years of experience, Gilligan had learned to weather the Skipper's fits of temper the way other sailors learned how to ride out a tempest. He considered any number of hiding places he could drop anchor in until the latest storm blew over, but on second thoughts, decided that this was probably just a brief squall. In any case, he thought, grinning, his big buddy wasn't exactly hard to outrun.

Following the course charted by his growling stomach, Gilligan headed back to camp. When he got there, he found Mary Ann by her stone-and-wood cooking range, looking disconsolately at a lengthy paper list. "Hi, Mary Ann. Can I help get lunch started? I'm starved."

She dragged a hand through her dark hair. "Oh, I've hardly had a chance to think about lunch, Gilligan! I just managed to get away from Mrs. Howell!"

"Mrs. Howell? What did she want?"

"She was going over the special menu for the garden party. All these fancy hors d'oeuvres, followed by a three-course meal! I can't cook all this!"

"Why not?"

The girl sighed and shook the paper as though trying to strangle a snake. "Look at these things! I can't even pronounce half of them!"

Gilligan took up a length of the offending paper and read it. "I can't pronounce them either, Mary Ann, but I bet I could eat them. Come on. You're a great cook. You've been cooking all your life – you told me so."

"Gilligan, that was just simple, down-home cooking for the farm hands – I'm no French chef!"

"So you made turtle soup and grilled swordfish and coconut cream pie on the farm in Kansas?"

She blinked. "What are you talking about? Of course I didn't!"

"But you do here, and they're great. You could figure out how to make these horses' derves or whatever they are. I bet they'd be delicious."

She burst into a smile. "Oh, thanks, Gilligan. Well, I'll try, anyhow. And as soon as I'm done putting together those extra first aid kits the Professor asked for, I'll get started on lunch." She glanced behind his shoulder and her brown eyes suddenly widened in dismay. "Oh, no!"

"What is it?" Gilligan spun, fearing the Skipper had already gotten loose from the glue. But it was only Mrs. Howell in her gold lame pantsuit, tiptoeing up to them with her gloved hands in the air. "Oh. Hi, Mrs. Howell."

"Gilligan, dear, how far have the Professor and the Skipper gotten with their preparations?"

"Well…not too far. They're kinda stuck right now."

The society matron quivered with delight and touched his cheek fondly. "Oh, you dear boy! We knew we could count on you!"

Gilligan sneaked a worried glance at Mary Ann before lturning back to Mrs. Howell in complete confusion. "Huh?"

"Come along, now, Gilligan. I need you to help me with something for the party. I won't keep you a minute." She pulled eagerly at his red shirt.

This time Mary Ann sneaked a glance at Gilligan and shrugged as if to say, _good luck!_

****************

Moments later, in the Howell hut, Mrs. Howell sat down at her vanity table and opened a small, leather-bound volume. "I've found it, you see! I've found it!"

"That's great, Mrs. Howell. What'd you lose?"

"I didn't lose it, dear boy. I simply couldn't find it. But here it is! The very thing!"

Gilligan raised his eyebrows. "Well, I'm glad you've found what you didn't lose, Mrs. Howell. What is it, anyway?"

"I'm going to perform a poetry recital at the party and I've found the most wonderful poem!" She opened the book and peered through her lorgnette. "_High Tide Off the Coast of Lincolnshire_ by Jean Ingelow. It's terribly exciting. Why, you should appreciate it, Gilligan, being of a nautical bent. It's about a tidal wave that struck the coast of England in 1571."

The young sailor was dubious, but as always with Mrs. Howell, he was quietly polite. "Gosh, I never heard of England having a tidal wave, Mrs. Howell, but if you say so…"

"It's based on a true story, I understand. It's terribly dramatic."

"I'll bet it is." Curious, Gilligan peered over her shoulder at the pages and drew back, puzzled. "If that's English, I think I went to the wrong school! What's an egyre?"

"Oh…" Mrs. Howell touched the tip of her lorgnette to her lip, trying to remember. "We learned the poem in school years ago. I do believe our teacher said it's the old name for a wave."

"And the Lindis?

"That's the name of a river, dear."

"Oh. And Mews? Pewits?" Gilligan was peering at the book again. "Sounds like something the Skipper might call me."

"Mews and pewits are birds, dear boy. Rather like a seagull, I believe." The island's matriarch looked worried for a moment. "Oh, dear. Perhaps I should put some explanatory notes in the program, otherwise I'll just confuse everyone!" She sighed in happy consternation. "Oh, I have a thousand things to do!"

"Well, come to think of it," said Gilligan as he looked towards the French doors and felt uncomfortably shut in, "I do too, and if the Skipper comes back and finds I'm not doing any work, he's gonna be kinda sore at me…"

"Oh, pooh! The dear Captain and Professor really are most tiresome with all of this earthquake nonsense. They're disrupting our preparation plans dreadfully and there really is no need. After all, we have those little tremors all the time!"

"Little tremors?" Gilligan's dark eyebrows flew like wings. "Mrs. Howell, the Skipper and I nearly went into orbit!"

"Oh, Gilligan! You do say the most amusing things!"

"Thanks, Mrs. Howell. But what do you need me for? You want me to recite a poem at the party? I know this one: _The owl and the pussycat went to sea/in a beautiful pea-green boat…"_

She shook her head. "No, thank you, dear. What I need is an audience to help me concentrate while I practice, but everyone's so busy. It's such an awfully long poem and I'm so worried I shan't be able to remember it."

"Maybe if you just tucked a note in the palm of your hand—"

"Oh, no, no, that would never do!" She flapped her lace handkerchief in gentle remonstration. "Just sit quiet and listen, there's a good boy."

He looked unhappily at the doors again. "Okay, Mrs. Howell. Just for a minute."

Gilligan sat down on the bamboo chair she indicated while Mrs. Howell stood and assumed a solemn stance. Her voice grew low and her hands in their long white gloves swept in grand dramatic gestures.

"_Men say it was a stolen tide_

_The Lord that sent it, He knows all_

_But in mine ears doth still abide_

_The message that the bells let fall_

_And there was naught of strange beside_

_The flight of mews and pewits pied_

_By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall."_

Mrs. Howell looked down at him. "Isn't it splendid, Gilligan? Such a wonderful eerie picture of the birds all lining the seashore. It seems they knew the wave was coming."

"Sure is creepy, all right," said Gilligan, shivering a little as he pictured it in his mind's eye.

"Oh, it's simply delicious! The narrator is an elderly lady, you see. The next part is where her son comes riding up with news from the town."

Gilligan sighed and hunched his shoulders, waiting nervously for the Skipper's impatient shout.

_The old sea wall (he cried) is down_

_The rising tide comes on apace_

_And boats adrift in yonder town_

_Go sailing up the marketplace!_

"Isn't that an unforgettable image, Gilligan?"

Gilligan nodded emphatically. "I'll say. Boy, if all the boats in the Ala Wai Harbour had gone sailing up Kapiolani Boulevard, the Skipper would have had a fit! He always did say the traffic in downtown Honolulu was crazy." Gilligan shifted nervously. "Uh…speaking of the Skipper—"

But Mrs. Howell was at it again:

_A mighty eygre reared his crest,_

_And up the Lindis raging sped_

_It swept with thunderous noises loud_

_Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,_

_Or like a demon in a shroud.  
_

Gilligan had known far more storms and terrible waves than Mrs. Howell. He began to shiver again.

_So fast, so far the egyre drave_

_The heart had hardly time to beat_

_Before a shallow, seething wave_

_Sobb'd in the grasses at our feet_

_The feet had hardly time to flee_

_Before it brake against the knee_

_And all the world was in the sea_.

Gilligan hiked up his feet in fear of the imaginary deluge as Mrs. Howell finished in a voice low and trembling with doom. "M-Mrs. Howell, I really oughtta get going!"

"What are you talking about, Gilligan? It's only a poem."

"Yeah, but--"

"_Gilligan!_" came a roar like the mighty egyre itself.

Gilligan skittered to his feet so quickly that he knocked over his chair. "Correction – it's already here! Uh…your poem sounds great! I know everybody'll love it! See you later, Mrs. Howell!" He set the chair teetering on its legs again and dashed out.

"Oh, pooh," Mrs. Howell murmured, peering through her lorgnette at the poem again. "The Captain and the Professor and their tiresome disasters! There were still ten more verses!"


	7. Chapter 7

A short time later, the castaways (including the Skipper, clad in his bare feet while his shoes and socks continued soaking in the Professor's solvent) stood before the Professor in front of the finished Mock Minnow simulator. Atop the bamboo table, which remained solidly stuck to the deck, sat a bucket of water. Nearby, an orange circle had been drawn upon the planking while a thick gangplank extended from the edge of the deck to the ground.

"Now it's essential we all understand the purpose of this exercise," began the Professor, gesturing with the burlap sack in his hand for emphasis. "If and when an earthquake occurs, we must act swiftly and efficiently to ensure our safety. There may be very little margin for error. This practice drill will allow us to learn the proper steps to take in an emergency situation so that we can later perform them without thinking."

"Sounds right up my alley," said Gilligan gratefully.

"Of course, Professor, we'll do whatever you suggest," said Mrs. Howell, adjusting her parasol against the tropical sun. "But when we're finished, can't we begin preparing for our party? I've barely started organizing the program of entertainment, and poor Mary Ann has been so busy she hasn't even had time to press the linens!"

"Mrs. Howell," said the Skipper, lifting his cap as though to release the steam, "how can we make you understand? The party is just not at the top of the list right now. We have more important things to do!"

"The Captain's right, Lovey. Do be reasonable, my dear," said her husband. "We must consider our priorities." He looked at the men. "For example, we haven't yet had one cricket practice. Have you gentlemen ever played before, hmmm? Can anyone here besides Lovey and myself tell the pitch from the green? Have any of you bowled anywhere but in an alley? I tell you, the whole tournament is going to be a shambles!"

The Skipper boiled over. "The same goes for you, Howell! We can play your game anytime! The Professor and I are trying to ensure our survival!"

"Well, I mean really," Mr. Howell muttered, but fell silent.

The Professor took command again. "Now, before we begin the drill, has everyone done what I asked? Ginger, have you prepared the bandages in case anyone becomes injured during the quake?"

"Uh..." the actress glanced nervously at Mrs. Howell. "Sorry, Professor. I did get started, but I'm not quite finished. I got a little...distracted, I guess."

The Professor caught that surreptitious glance, and scowled. "I see. Mr. and Mrs. Howell, dare I even suppose that you've been gathering conch shells?"

Thurston bristled a little at the sarcasm, but held his ground. "So sorry, old man. This seems to be a bad year for conch shells. Lovey and I combed the jungle all morning and couldn't find a single one."

"You look for conch shells on the beach, Mr. Howell," growled the Skipper.

"You don't say? Well, really, Captain, I suggest you Navy types ought to brief your men a little more efficiently. I daresay the Marines would have."

At this the Skipper nearly exploded, but the Professor beat him to it. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we cannot hide our heads in the sand! I've told you what's about to happen, performed scientific tests under strict controls, and yet you are determined to allow your self-centeredness to jeopardize your very safety!" He rounded on the farm girl. "Mary Ann! I can't believe you'd be part of this Vanity Fair. What's the status of the first aid kits?"

"I – I did get started, Professor," said the brunette, eyes downcast. "But there's just been so much to do..."

"Don't forget, Professor," Gilligan cut in, before the Professor or the Skipper could respond. "Mary Ann lost time because she went out to the valley to find me. It wasn't her fault."

Mary Ann touched Gilligan's arm gratefully as the Skipper sighed and nodded. "That's right, Professor. Well, at least Gilligan did bring back the bamboo in case we need to rebuild the huts." He turned back to his first mate. "That was good work, little buddy, but she wouldn't have had to get you if you'd just kept to the job. The same goes for all of you. Don't let yourself get distracted by silly things. You've got to stay on course!"

"Well said, Skipper." The Professor had regained his composure by now. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, as our drill will involve a good deal of physical activity and possibly loss of balance, it is imperative that we don protective headgear."

Gilligan and the others did a double take. "You mean helmets, Professor? Like those crazy things we made out of upside down buckets?"

"No, no, Gilligan. We've taken a much simpler approach." And with that, the Professor reached into the sack and pulled out what looked like a strange, quilted, dome-shaped hat.

Mr. Howell's dark eyebrows formed a single line of disbelief. "Good heavens, Professor, what on earth is that? It looks like one of the tea cosies Mary Ann made for Lovey and I."

"That's because that's precisely what it is, Mr. Howell," said the Professor, smiling.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Howell was peering incredulously through her lorgnette. "Oh, Professor, when you asked to borrow the whole set this morning, I actually dared to hope you'd changed your mind about our party! What's the meaning of this?"

The Professor squeezed the thick, spongy material for emphasis. "Your tea cosies are the perfect size, Mrs. Howell. They'll provide excellent cushioning for our heads while the Mock Minnow is in motion."

"You mean you actually want us to wear those things? On our heads?" gasped Ginger.

"Do you realize what it will do to my hair?" said Mrs. Howell.

"Not to mention my image," added Ginger.

Thurston Howell pointed an accusing finger at the fabric. "But look here, old man. They've got little flowers all over them! Even during Happy Hour at the Harvard Club the fellows never looked that ridiculous."

"Yeah," said Gilligan. "I mean, I though the cricket outfits were silly looking, but this takes the cake!"

"Oh, pipe down, all of you! This isn't a fashion show. Here, give me that, Professor!" And snatching off his captain's hat, the Skipper pulled the tea cosy over his head until only his face, framed in periwinkle blue with yellow buttercups, glared out of the opening meant for the teapot handle.

For a moment nobody dared to speak, but at last Gilligan, his eyes dancing, decided to throw caution to the winds. "Hey, that's nice, Skipper. Goes with your blue eyes."

"Is that so?" The Skipper turned to the Professor. "Give me another one of those, Professor!"

The Professor pulled out a lovely little lilac-purple number adorned with dainty lilies of the valley.

The Skipper grabbed Gilligan's sailor cap. "There! You put that on your head, Gilligan, and that's an order!"

Gilligan's eyes glared mutiny, but his mouth had learned its lesson. Taking the offending cosy as though it were Gilliana's blonde wig, he pulled on.

"By Jove! The two of you look as though you took first and second prize at the Tulip Festival in Amsterdam," chuckled Thurston Howell.

"Very funny, Howell! You're next!"

In short order the remaining castaways (except for the Professor) made a colourful pageant of rose pink, cherry red, marigold orange and kelly green, which Ginger had seized, claiming it was the only colour that complimented her red hair. Once she had it on, she gazed into her compact with an air of defeat. "I hope my agent never hears about this."

The Professor gestured to the Mock Minnow. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you'll just get into position."

The six tea cosied castaways trooped up the gangplank to the deck, where the men helped the women to step aboard. Then the Professor slung the gangplank out of the way and manned the ropes. "When the deck – that is, the earth – begins to move, you must all get under the table in order to protect yourselves from falling debris. Its legs have been glued to the deck, so it can't move. In addition, that orange circle on the deck-" and he pointed, "-is meant to represent a campfire. You must put that campfire out with the bucket of water on the table, to avoid any danger to the huts."

"But won't this bucket fall over when the deck starts to move?" asked Gilligan.

"I've used a diluted version of the glue on the base. It'll stick to the table until you lift it."

Gilligan wiggled it slightly, and it moved. "Okay."

"Fine. Now, everyone, just stand around the table and try to behave naturally – just as you would any evening after dinner."

"Any evening when we're all standing about wearing tea cosies on our heads, you mean," grumbled Mr. Howell.

"Here. I'll start us off," said the Skipper. He cleared his throat. "Well, that was a very fine dinner, Mary Ann. Best I've ever had on the island."

"Uh...thank you, Skipper."

"What's for dessert?" Gilligan piped up.

"Um...coconut cream pie! Your favourite!"

"Oh boy!"

"Isn't it a lovely evening?" said Ginger, sounding as though she meant the very opposite.

"Oh, awfully, dear," said Mrs. Howell. "And I did want to say how very much I admire your new hat. Have they any more at the shop where you bought it?"

Mrs. Howell was spared Ginger's reply when Mr. Howell upstaged them both. "I say, Professor, are we to stand here improvising all day? Do get on with it!"

But the Professor, straining at the ropes, was having little luck. Though he hauled downwards with all his strength, the Mock Minnow didn't stir. Finally, red-faced and sweating, he gave up. "I'm afraid I just can't move it with all of you aboard. Skipper, I need you down here."

"Yeah," said Gilligan. "Maybe we'll sit a little higher in the water."

The Professor raised his eyebrows. "I simply meant the Skipper's stronger than I am."

Gilligan looked at the Skipper. "Oh." He managed what he hoped was a disarming smile.

It didn't work. The Skipper snatched off his tea cosy and whopped Gilligan on the head.

Gilligan grinned in delighted surprise at the cushioned impact. "Hey, you were right, Professor. These things work great! I should wear one all the time!"

With one last glare, the Skipper turned and climbed down from the deck. Once on the ground, he scooped up his captain's hat gratefully and put it on. "Here, Professor. I'll take over." He raised his beefy arms and took hold of the ropes. "All right, everybody! Battle stations!"

And with a mighty heave, he sent the near end of the Mock Minnow soaring up like a seasaw. The castaways screamed and grabbed at the table for dear life.

Mrs. Howell (in rose pink) was bent double over the table, clutching her husband's hand, when her coral brooch slid loose and bounced down the table's length. "Thurston! Get my brooch!"

"I daren't, Lovey! It's every man for himself!"

The other end of the deck heaved skywards, and the castaways lurched and hung on.

"I don't think I want any coconut cream pie after all, Mary Ann," yelped Gilligan, his knuckles white and his face green. "My stomach's not so good right now!"

"Come on, people!" cried the Professor from terra firma. "Get under the table!"

Gilligan didn't need to be told twice. He dropped to the floor and crawled underneath the table, fingers scrabbling for a purchase on the wildly tilting floor.

The girls had dropped too. Ginger inched forwards, trapped by her long, tight evening gown. "Gilligan, help us!"

Mary Ann's terrified face peeped out of the cherry tea cosy. "I can't hang on!"

Crawling forwards and bracing his feet against the table legs, Gilligan flung his arms out in front of him. "Grab my hands, girls! I'll save you!"

The two women strained to reach him, until at last he could grasp one of their hands each. When the Minnow rocked the girls up and him down, he braced his feet again and pulled.

"Eeee!" The girls shot straight towards the first mate like a pair of red and green fronted torpedoes.

"Incoming!" yelled Gilligan as they slammed into his shoulders. In seconds two pairs of slender arms grappled him with the strength of anchor chains, nearly suffocating him.

"Help us, Gilligan!" screamed Mary Ann.

"Don't let go!" shrieked Ginger.

Gilligan fought to get his tea cosied head in the air. "Skipper!"

"What is it?"

"Permission to abandon ship, Sir!"

"Gilligan, you stay at your post and that's an order!"

Gilligan whimpered, sandwiched in a vice of female flesh. "They said join the navy and see the world, but I didn't think they meant this!"

Meanwhile, the Howells were still topside as the deck teetered and tottered. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell! Get under!" called the Professor.

"How?" called the millionaire, clinging to the bamboo. "There isn't any more room in third class!"

"Gilligan!" shouted the Skipper. "The fire! You're supposed to put it out, remember?"

"Oh, yeah!" Gilligan somehow pried himself loose from the girls and scrambled away, leaving Mary Ann and Ginger to slide down screaming until they wrapped themselves around the table legs. Meanwhile, Gilligan clambered to his feet and grabbed the bucket of water with hand. Hanging onto the table with the other, he staggered his way along as the Howells ducked under into the space he had left. At last, he eyed the orange circle with determination.

"Look out below!"

Gilligan let go of the table to grab the bucket with both hands just as the Skipper gave the mightiest heave of all. The Mock Minnow shot to near-perpendicular and the bucket – and Gilligan – flew as the others screamed. The water hit the Skipper square amidships, as did Gilligan a moment later, knocking the Skipper flat to the ground.

The Mock Minnow's deck settled again, to the remaining castaways' great relief.

"Gosh, Skipper," said Gilligan, picking himself up, "you've gotta stop catching me like this! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

"Oh, Professor," the Skipper sputtered, flailing on his back like an overturned beetle, "how does he do it? Every time! Every time!"

The Professor helped him up as the castaways still aboard ship climbed painfully to their feet, plucking off their tea cosies. "Good heavens," said Mr. Howell, still hanging onto the table even though the deck was no longer moving. "I haven't felt like this since New Year's Eve!"

Gilligan pulled off his cosy as well and put his sailor's cap back on. "How did we do, Professor?"

"Not too badly for a first time, Gilligan, but we're going to need to be much faster than that if we're going to protect ourselves during a real earthquake. We'll have to run the drill again."

"Again?" Gilligan groaned.

"If we're doing this again, I want padding on more than just my head! That hurt!" cried Ginger.

"Amen to that!" said Mary Ann. "At least the ground's not as hard as that deck!"

"I'm sorry, girls, but we'll hurt a good deal more if we're not prepared for the real thing. Come on, folks. Take your places, please."

"Oh, dear," cried Mrs. Howell. "Wherever did my brooch get to?" She suddenly saw it sitting on the table. "Oh! There it is!" She reached out to grasp it, when a sudden cawing sounded overhead and a flame coloured streak swooped down, snatched the bauble up, and flapped off.

"Police! Police!" called Mrs. Howell. "That bird stole my brooch!"

"That's Rusty! Rusty, what are you doing? Come back with that!" Gilligan tore off after the feathered thief.

"Gilligan, we don't have time for that!" called the Professor.

Gilligan followed the flash of red tail plumage into the jungle. After a brief chase he emerged into another clearing, fringed with palmetto trees.

"Rusty! There you are!" Gilligan skidded to a stop as he spotted the beautiful orange bird perched atop a bamboo pole sticking out of the ground. What looked like a perch stuck out from the side of the pool, and a spool of paper hung from it. The bird sat on this perch, jerking its head back and forth as it tried to pull something loose with its beak. Gilligan stood over his pet, gasping for breath. "Rusty? What are you doing? What have you got there?"

He peered over and saw that the object Rusty was wrestling with was a pencil, held by a clasp above the ribbon of paper. As Rusty yanked on the pencil, a jagged line emerged on the long white slip. Gilligan looked at whole length of the paper ribbon, to where it depended to a dancing spool. The paper jerked with the bird's every move, and Gilligan saw that it was covered with similar jagged lines. "Uh oh…" Gilligan breathed, looking nervously towards the bushes where he heard the others approaching. "Rusty, are we in for it now!"

Just then the Howells and the others came panting out of the foliage. "Gilligan!" shouted Mr. Howell. "What's that thieving magpie done with my wife's jewelry?"

Gilligan had almost forgotten Mrs. Howell's brooch. He looked down and saw a glint at his foot. "Uh – here it is, Mr. Howell!" He bent and swiftly snatched it up. "Look! No harm done! Good as new! Well, we'd better get back to the simulator, huh?"

Mr. Howell snatched it away and pulled a diamond-cutter's eyepiece from his breast pocket. "One moment! My insurance company will hear about this. This stone is priceless!"

"Well, Mr. Howell, the bird stole it for the same reason that you did," the Professor explained.

The eyepiece popped out of Mr. Howell's eye like a ball from a cannon. He took a step back. "A Howell resort to stealing? Explain yourself, sir!"

The Professor shook his head. "Forgive me, Mr. Howell. I should have said, _wanted_ it for the same reason you did. This species of bird builds and decorates an elaborate nest to attract a female. He simply took Mrs. Howell's diamond in order to impress his mate."

Lovey smiled. "Aw, the dear little fellow. At least he has exquisite taste. I'm sure his little hen will be delighted."

"Yeah, you see?" said Gilligan. "Come on, everybody! Last one on deck is a rotten egg!"

"Wait a minute!" cried the Professor. "Gilligan, what is that bird doing?"

"Uh…" Rusty was tugging spiritedly at the pencil again. Gilligan looked like he wished they could both sink into the quicksand. "Writing a note to apologize?"

"Why, he's jerking my pencil! He's making false readings on my seismometer!"

The Skipper clutched his hat in disbelief. "What?"

"And those readings started appearing a few weeks ago – just about the same time Gilligan first showed me his new 'pet'!" The Professor put his hands on his hips with a frustrated sigh that said all he was too much of a gentleman to say.

"You mean – it's all been Rusty?" gasped Mary Ann.

"Precisely! All this has been for nothing! There is no impending disaster! Just one mischievous bird!"

The cheer that burst from the Howells and Ginger wasn't exactly the reaction the Professor expected. The Howells actually began to dance around.

"Hoorah! Hoorah! On with the party and the cricket match!"

"No more drills!" cried Ginger. "Thank goodness!"

"At least we're all safe," murmured Mary Ann.

"You're so right, Mary Ann," said the Skipper. "Well, little buddy, I'm too relieved to be sore at you. But maybe you want to be a little more careful choosing your pets from now on, huh?" He plucked the pencil out of its holder and picked up the long spool of paper. "Here, Professor. Unless you want Gilligan's bird decorating his nest with these!" As the Professor stared moodily at the zigzags on the paper, the Skipper turned to the others. "Come on, everyone. Let's go and get that table unglued."

The castaways started back, the Howells chattering gaily about the upcoming festivities all the way. When they had disappeared, Mary Ann, still standing by the seismometer, touched Gilligan gently on the arm. "Oh, Gilligan, it wasn't your fault. Or Rusty's either, come to that. He just did what he does naturally."

"Yeah," said Gilligan, scuffing at the sand with his shoe. "Just like messing things up seems to come naturally to me."

"Now just stop that! That's not true, and you know it!" She softened a little as he looked up. "Now come on...look on the bright side! There isn't going to be any disaster after all!"

"Yeah...." Gilligan frowned. "But what about that quake last night? Rusty didn't cause that – that's for sure."

"Gee, Gilligan, you're right." Mary Ann looked back at the bird, her eyes momentarily clouding with worry before they brightened again. "But the Professor always knows what he's talking about. It must be okay!"

"I guess." Gilligan didn't sound too convinced.

She touched his arm again, smiling. "Come on. Why don't I turn that imaginary coconut cream pie into a reality?"

Gilligan's answering smile was like a sliver of the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. "Okay, Mary Ann. Let's go." He turned back to the bird. "Not you, Rusty. You stay. You've gotten me into enough trouble today!"

The bird of paradise sat watching as the two humans vanished into the jungle. After a few moments, the bamboo pole began to jiggle, and the bird cawed in alarm and flapped off.

The pencil holder continued to quiver furiously, writing invisible warnings onto the empty air.


	8. Chapter 8

On the morning of the garden party the weather was far from promising, but the Howells, determined that the show would go on, led the gear-laden castaways to the green far, far from camp. Once there, Mrs. Howell discovered with great dismay that two of the carefully packed crates of hors d'oeuvres had been forgotten.

"Oh, dear…we simply can't have our tea without the cucumber sandwiches! Gilligan, dear boy, would you--"

He smiled in good natured resignation. "Sure, Mrs. Howell. See you in a little bit."

The weather did improve, but only by degrees. Even by early afternoon shrouds of mist still clung to the island's steep velvet hills, leaving perpendicular islets of green to peep out of the swirling sea of grey. Below, two tiny figures in white trooped along the valley floor, their footfalls muffled in the moist air.

Gilligan, carrying the two small brown crates, noticed a brown streak of dirt on his white sleeve and groaned. "Boy, I'm glad it's not much further! This is worse than being back in the navy!"

"What do you mean?" said Mary Ann. "Did you have to go on long marches, like in the army?"

"No, I mean I was dressed in white from head to foot and always getting dirty, just like now." He skirted around a particularly sticky-looking bush. "I still say these cricket outfits are way too fancy to play a game in."

"I suppose they are. Oh, well - that's the Howells for you. Everything's all about tradition, whether it's sensible or not." Mary Ann brushed the front panel of her long white skirt, frowning. "Gee, you're right, Gilligan. It isn't easy keeping these white outfits clean out here. I'm sure I don't know what Ginger and I are going to do with these after this party." And plucking her swirling white hem upwards, Mary Ann stepped cautiously over a fallen branch on the trail.

Instinctively Gilligan shifted the crates under his arm and reached out to guide her with his free hand. "I guess I should be glad I've only got to manage with pants. It's lucky that box that washed ashore wasn't full of stuff for some Scottish game, or the Howells might have made us all wear kilts!"

Mary Ann burst into giggles. "Oh, golly, what a picture that would make! You'd better not mention it to Mrs. Howell – she'd probably love it!"

"Yikes. You're right."

Mary Ann shook her head. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen either of the Howells so excited. Not even at the Howell Annual Cotillions!"

"That's for sure. I hope Mr. Howell still has some of his tranquillizers left, 'cause he and Mrs. Howell are gonna need them after this. No wonder Mrs. Howell forgot half the hor dervies."

Mary Ann paused for a moment to wipe stray tendrils of her dark hair out of her eyes. "Oh! I sure hope they're worth it. If I'd known we were going for this long a walk today, I'd have worn my canvas shoes!"

Gilligan had paused too, and was studying her carefully. "You didn't have to come back with me, Mary Ann. It's awfully far for you. I mean, I'm glad you did, but--"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," she said quickly. "I used to walk a lot further than this back in Kansas when we brought the cows in for milking. Let's keep going." Pushing back her white hat, the farm girl started on down the trail again, smiling slyly. "Besides – I came back with you to make sure at least some of the hors d'oeuvres made it to the party!"

"Huh?" His dark eyebrows flew up at the accusation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Gilligan. How many have you had since we left?"

"Well…" He quickly glanced away. "Not that many. One or two…"

"Oh, Gilligan, you've never eaten one or two of anything I made!"

"There, you see? I told you," he shot back in triumph.

"Told me what?"

"That you could make these things. They're delicious, just like I said they'd be." He licked his lips. "Especially the mango tarts. I had four of those."

Mary Ann laughed again, shaking her head. "Gilligan, you're impossible!"

The sound of their shared laughter melted into the hush that filled the narrow valley; only the lethe-like murmur of the waterfalls snaking from the heights made the slightest sound.

"You know, I think I'll save Rusty one of these tarts. He loves mangoes."

"Have you seen him much lately?"

The young sailor frowned. "No, not a sign of him. Not for days."

"Not since that episode with the Professor's seismometer, huh?" Mary Ann shook her head sadly. "I just hope we didn't upset him."

"I don't think so. He's a pretty tough little guy when he wants to be."

Mary Ann smiled. "Maybe he's found a nice little hen to settle down with. Maybe he's doing one of his dances for her right now."

Gilligan chuckled. "Yeah, could be. With all the birds on this island, he's bound to find somebody. They're always singing and squawking, from dawn 'til—" He suddenly stopped, looking all around.

Mary Ann stopped too. "What is it, Gilligan?"

"Mary Ann, do you hear anything strange?"

She stood stock still and listened in the great hush of the lonely valley. "No. I can't hear anything at all."

"That's what I mean!"

"What?"

"The birds!" The sudden hush of Gilligan's voice sent a shiver down Mary Ann's spine. "They aren't making any noise. Where are they, Mary Ann? What's happened to them all?"

Mary Ann looked anxiously at the silent, towering hills with their ghostly veils of mist. "I don't know! You're right - it's weird!"

"It's like they're hiding from something," whispered the first mate. "But what?"

"Whatever it is, it's giving me the creeps! Gilligan, I want to get back to the others. Let's get out of here!"

They hurried on, sticking _very_ close together, until they reached the narrow pass that would lead them into a second valley. Gilligan craned his neck, trying to peer through. "Oh, no. Mary Ann, are you any good at Blind Man's Bluff?"

Sheltered from even a breath of wind, the mist hovered thick as London fog in the pass. As the two castaways crept in, trees and bushes loomed up like ghosts, only to vanish moments later.

Mary Ann squinted, her hand raised before her face. "This is awful! I can't see a thing in here!"

"Maybe we're better off," murmured Gilligan in a voice of doom. "I'm not sure we want to see what's in here!"

"Gilligan, stop that!"

"Sorry."

They blundered on, nearly blind and deaf, until at last the white gauze all around them seemed to thin, and the trees and bushes grew more solid.

"Thank goodness!" cried Mary Ann. "I think we're nearly through!"

She rushed out of the mouth of the pass, Gilligan hard on her heels. Another set of lush hills reared before them, with the jungle curled about their base.

"Oh, I'm so glad we're finally out of there! Now at least we can see what…" Mary Ann stopped, looking all about her, and clutched Gilligan's arm as though he were her last anchor to sanity. "Dear Lord…Gilligan, what in the world?"

"I told you we were better off not knowing," he whispered.

They had found the birds.

For birds, seemingly millions of them, sat massed in a sea of feathers that mantled the valley from one end to the other. Legions of grey-white gulls and pelicans, hoardes of black crows and frigates, swarms of brown petrels and shearwaters, green and red and blue parrots and a whole host of others sat staring at the two castaways from countless cold, unblinking eyes. Not one of that avian multitude made a sound.

For a moment the two castaways simply stared back, rooted with terror. Then Gilligan's eyes narrowed in confused recognition. "Wait a minute…Mary Ann, I've seen something like this before!"

"Yeah!" she shuddered. "In an Alfred Hitchcock movie!"

"No, no…just a little while ago! But where was it?"

Suddenly they heard a single caw. Gilligan's head whipped 'round. "Rusty!"

Swiftly bending to put down his crates, the first mate rose again and held out his white sleeve. Out of that eerie throng flapped a bird of bright hibiscus orange with a long, plumed red tail. It landed on Gilligan's wrist, talons digging into his shirt, and Gilligan heaved a sigh of relief. "Rusty, am I glad it's you! What the heck's going on here anyway? There must be millions of you…"

Gilligan stopped, his eyes slowly going wide and the blood draining from his face. "The mews and the pewits pied…by millions crouched on the old sea wall…oh, my gosh!"

"Gilligan, what is it?"

But Gilligan was still intent upon the bird. "So that's it! You better get out of here, Rusty. Get to the high ground as quick as you can, all of you! On the double!"

At his words a deafening chorus of bird voices burst forth, and the mighty flock took wing in a huge, swirling spiral, flapping off over the soaring hills until their raucous voices had faded into the distance. Mary Ann stared, chilled. "Gilligan, what on earth's going on?"

He turned and seized her hands. "Mary Ann, there's no time to lose! It could hit any minute!"

"What could? What was that you were saying before?"

"The birds, they know!" he insisted. "They must have felt it coming, like they did in England all those years ago!"

"Felt _what_ coming?" she cried.

Gilligan took a deep breath. "A wave. A giant wave. Come on, Mary Ann! We've got to warn the others!"


	9. Chapter 9

The level green meadow that lay in the shadow of a high green hill now boasted the castaways' bamboo table, two long benches, and the black stretch of the cricket pitch. Five castaways, all resplendent in white, wandered about like so many models in an ad for laundry bleach. Ginger was touching up her lipstick, Mrs. Howell was fussing with the decorative flowers, and on the pitch, the men were practicing their game. The Skipper leaned over, pitching a cricket ball, and Mr. Howell shook his head in annoyance as it bounced past three feet beyond him. "You really must work on that bowling technique of yours, Captain. You bowl as though you're shoveling coal into the boiler. Come along now. Let's try it again."

The Skipper scowled. "I'm bowling just fine, Howell. Maybe it's too much work for you to lift that bat and hit the ball!"

"Gentlemen!" the Professor urged. "This is supposed to be a gentleman's game! Let's try to be civil, shall we?"

"You're quite right, Professor," Mr. Howell conceded. "We shan't count that one, Captain. Give it another try. Just pretend that you're aiming for a strike."

The Skipper had just bent for another go when Mary Ann and Gilligan dashed breathlessly into view.

"Run! It's headed straight for us!"

The castaways jumped in alarm. "Mary Ann! Gilligan! What in the world?" exclaimed the Professor.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Howell. "They forgot the cucumber sandwiches!"

Mary Ann and Gilligan skidded to a halt. "There's no time, Professor! We've got to run! The wave'll be here any minute!"

"Wave?" demanded the Professor. "Gilligan, what are you talking about?"

"A huge wave! Bigger than the one Duke Williams rode in on!"

The Professor stared. "Do you mean a tsunami?"

The Skipper grabbed his hat in horror. "Oh, my gosh! A tsunami!"

"Is that any good on sandwiches?" asked Mrs. Howell hopefully.

"Not salami, Mrs. Howell, tsunami!" said the Skipper. "It's a huge wave caused by an underwater earthquake! Isn't that right, Professor?"

"Yes." The Professor turned to his young friends, hands planted on his hips. "But what happened, Gilligan? Did you actually see this wave?"

"No, Professor!"

"Did you, Mary Ann?"

"No!"

"We haven't felt any earth tremors here. Did either of you feel anything?"

"No!"

The Professor looked at the Skipper, who scratched his head under his captain's cap. "Then I'm lost at sea here, little buddy. What makes you think there's going to be a tsunami?"

"It's the pews and the meewits!" Gilligan cried. "By millions crouched on the old sea wall!"

Now the Skipper was lost at sea in a fog. "The w_hat?_"

"The _birds_, Skipper! The birds are acting really funny!"

At last the Skipper could see land. He nodded his head in comic resignation. "Ah. Now it all makes sense. So that's it. A little bird told you?"

"Yeah! I mean--uh—" Gilligan winced as the salvo hit full force, but despite the dubious half-smiles of his audience, he fought on. "No. Not one little bird, Skipper. Millions! Mary Ann and I saw them all crowded together in the valley! They know something's wrong! It's the tsunami!"

Mr. Howell balanced the tip of his cricket bat on the ground. "My boy, you're holding up the grand match because of a spate of bird-watching? I mean really!"

"They are upset about something, Mr. Howell!" Mary Ann cried. "What if Gilligan's right? We have to get to the high ground as soon as possible!"

The Professor shook his head. "Mary Ann, there is no scientific evidence to support the claim that birds can predict tsunamis."

"They predicted the high tide off the coast of Lincolnshire!" Gilligan insisted.

"The what?"

"Oh! I do believe Gilligan means my poem, Professor," said Mrs. Howell. "The one I'm going to recite today." She turned to the frantic first mate. "But that was just a poem a lady wrote, dear boy. You mustn't take it seriously."

"But Mrs. Howell, you said it was based on a true story!"

Ginger tried to explain. "That doesn't mean everything in the story is true, Gilligan! The author was probably just going for dramatic effect, that's all!"

"It'll be pretty dramatic when that tsunami hits us, that's for sure!"

Mary Ann stepped in. "Professor, everyone knows you know a lot about wild animals and birds, but I've never seen you charm them right out of the trees the way Gilligan can. He has a way with animals that nobody else does. If Gilligan says the birds know a tsunami's coming, I believe him!" The others looked at her in disbelief, but the look Gilligan gave her made her feel as though she had wings herself.

"But Mary Ann—" the Professor began.

"I'm not finished!" Her voice rang with conviction, and not a little anger. "I know a few things about animals myself. I grew up on a farm in Kansas that was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. I saw my first natural disaster when I was two. And I remember that every time the tornadoes came, the animals always knew first! You could bet your last dollar on it!"

"But tornadoes are a weather phenomenon, Mary Ann," the Professor explained gently. "Even our science can predict those to a certain degree: we have weather satellites to help us. But we've no satellite beneath the earth's crust, where earthquakes originate. Even a seismometer can't predict _exactly _when and where an earthquake will occur, or a tsunami!"

"_Then what's going on with the birds?"_

"Calm down, Gilligan." The Professor reached out to pat Gilligan's arm and spoke in his most reassuring tone. "It's not that unusual. They've probably sensed a large school of fish offshore, and they've come to feed."

"Rusty's there," countered Gilligan, shaking off both hand _and_ tone. "He doesn't eat fish. He eats fruit. And there's a lot of other birds there that don't eat fish either: ducks and parrots and woodpeckers!"

Mr. Howell rolled his eyes. "Look, my boy, when you're finished reeling off the Audobon guide, can we please get back to the game?"

The Skipper finally intervened. "That's enough, Howell. My little buddy and Mary Ann meant well." He turned to the pair. "Now hear this, you two. You need to trim your sails a little - you're getting all worked up! Now maybe you did see the birds doing something odd back there, but it seems to me you're making far too much of it. The Professor here knows what he's talking about. Let's just forget all about it."

"But Skipper!"

"No buts, little buddy!" The Skipper held up a calming hand. "Now Mrs. Howell wants those sandwiches and things. Why don't you two just run along and get them, and by the time you come back you'll probably find that the birds have all gone."

Mary Ann took Gilligan by the arm. She'd never seen him so angry. The first mate stood still for a second, blue eyes blazing with fear and fury. Then he seized her hand and strode off onto the jungle. "Come on, Mary Ann."

Mary Ann had to trot to keep up with Gilligan's determined stride as they doubled back along the trail. At last she dug her heels in, trying to stop their progress. "Gilligan, we can't just go back! They're all in terrible danger!"

He stopped and whirled. "I know that, Mary Ann. But they won't listen to me!"

She bit her lip. "I know. They wouldn't listen to me either. Just because we're the two youngest…"

Gilligan's expression softened. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Maybe that's it. But still—" he stared out through a break in the trees to where the whitecaps rippled on the turquoise sea. "We've got to find some way to make them go to higher ground!"

"How long do you think we've got?"

A sudden great fluttering, cawing, shrieking and chirping sounded above, and they looked up to see another huge, motley many-coloured flock winging its way overhead.

Gilligan's face paled. "There's your answer."

He cast around wildly and suddenly noticed that one bird had landed in a bush nearby. "Rusty! Are you out of your mind? What are you waiting for! Get away! There's no way you can help us!" Gilligan raced to the bird, but suddenly yelped as his feet slid out from under him. He flailed wildly, trying to keep his balance, until he finally grabbed hold of the bush. Scrabbling for a foothold, he sagged among the leaves and branches as the bird fluttered into the air and disappeared over the palms.

"Gilligan!" Mary Ann cried. "Are you all right? What tripped you?"

The first mate was staring intently down at something directly in front of him. "Wait a minute…I remember this place! The Professor and I were searching and he went the other way…and then there was that baby chimp!"

"Gilligan, what are you talking about?" The girl raced to him but he jumped up and caught her in his arms before she could pass the bush. "Gilligan, what are you doing?"

"Careful, Mary Ann! It's right in front of us!"

"What is?"

His eyes were bright with excitement now. "We've got it made! Now listen to me, okay? I'm going to need you to play along…"


	10. Chapter 10

Mary Ann and Gilligan came tearing up again, as breathless as before. "Hey, what are you two doing back so soon?" the Skipper demanded. "You didn't even get the sandwiches! What's the big idea?"

"Yes, what sent you racing back this time?" Mr. Howell quipped. "Are the sea turtles doing a can-can on the beach? Are we in for a typhoon this evening, hmmm?"

"Ship!" the pair chorused, pointing wildly down the trail. "There's a ship!"

The castaways jumped to attention. "What?"

Mary Ann and Gilligan were barely coherent, their faces alight. It was hard to tell which of them was saying what.

"We saw a ship, out there!"

"On the sea!"

"A big cruise ship!"

"It wasn't that far out!"

"Maybe we could signal it!"

"Come on!" The young pair turned and dashed down the trail in a flash of Oxford whites.

The other castaways looked at one another for just one moment. Then, galvanized, they charged down the trail after the sprinting twosome. "We're saved! We're saved!"

Mary Ann and Gilligan raced along, stealing a glance backward every now and then to make sure they were still followed. When they reached the spot where Gilligan had fallen on the bush, they moved carefully off to the side. They looked at one another and nodded as their friends came pounding down the trail.

The Professor was first. "Down there, Professor!" Gilligan shouted, pointing just past the bush. The Professor shot past and vanished into the lush foliage. His shout of surprise was drowned out by the excited shouts of the other castaways. "This way! This way!" called Gilligan and Mary Ann.

Ginger was next, her white skirts flying. She ran remarkably quickly for a woman in high heels. "This way, Ginger!" Gilligan called, and she flew past. He and Mary Ann winced as they heard her cry of dismay. "Sorry about your hairdo, Ginger," Gilligan murmured, as he watched her disappear.

Then came the Howells. He was faster, waving his cricket bat in the air. "Ahoy, out there! This is Thurston Howell the Third! Come ashore and I'll let you join the tournament! Faster, Lovey, faster!" They hurried past, and Gilligan grimaced as he awaited the inevitable.

"Egad! What the--!"

"Thurston! Eeek!"

Gilligan sighed, his face pained. "I really didn't want to let Mrs. Howell go," he said unhappily. "But I was afraid she wouldn't follow us!"

And last came the Skipper, puffing up the trail like a giant white meringue. He was so winded that he stopped just at the bush to catch his breath, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "Gilligan! _Puff! Puff_! I saw the sea through the trees- _puff puff_- back there! I didn't see any—"

Gilligan took a brave breath. "Time to cast off, Skipper!" And with that he threw himself at the Skipper's ample stern, knocking the big man off balance so that he went careering past the bush.

"Gilligan, what in the---aaaaaah!"

Mary Ann, who'd grabbed Gilligan's arm so that he wouldn't fall too, peered past him. "Is that how you saved him from the runaway depth charge?"

"Pretty much. Good thing the Skipper makes a big target." Gilligan stepped forward and parted the curtain of green leaves so that Mary Ann could see too.

The land sloped down sharply before them, coated with a thick, brown, shimmering substance like chocolate pudding. At the bottom of the incline was a wide, deep pool of thick mud, in which five slimy, brown, bedraggled shapes were crawling and wailing. The biggest shape looked up at the pristine pair in their snowy garb and shook a huge fist. _"Gilligan!"_

"Oops! Sorry Skipper!" Gilligan's voice was at its most innocent. "I guess there wasn't any ship out there after all!"

Ginger was on her knees, squeezing mud out of the long brown hank of sludge that was her hair. "Oh! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"

The dripping brown shape beside her struggled to its feet only to slip down again. "You'll have to wait your turn! Gilligan, you cataclysmic catastrophe!"

Gilligan looked at Mary Ann and smiled. "I think the Professor's mad."

Mrs. Howell was trying to see out of a mud-covered lace veil and not having very much luck. Her husband used his mud-coated cricket bat as a prop and tried to stand. "Heavens! My beautiful Oxford whites! Ruined! I've been positively marinated!"

Gilligan touched Mary Ann's arm. "Get ready. I'll be way out in front, so you'll have to keep up on your own."

"You can count on me," she whispered.

"Okay. Hey Skipper!" he called jovially. "You know what you look like? The Creature from the Black Lagoon! Only fatter!" He clapped his hands and laughed merrily.

The Skipper did look rather like the Creature from the Black Lagoon as he towered up out of the mud pool, big arms flexing and hands clenching. "Just wait 'til you see what you look like after I've dunked you in here!"

"Oh yeah?" Gilligan challenged.

"Yeah!" answered the filthy five.

"You've got to catch me first!" Laughing, Gilligan took off at top speed.

"After him!" The mud-covered castaways clawed their way up the slope like giant amphibians escaping from the primeval ooze and stampeded down the trail after him. Mary Ann, barely noticed in all the excitement, brought up the rear.

On Gilligan ran, his white costume flashing through the trees. He looked behind him to see his furious pursuers and grinned to see that they were all there and making more speed than he would have given them credit for, even with a covering of mud. Careful not to get too far ahead, he veered off down a fork in the trail and led them out of the leafy jungle, back to the broad cricket field. Ahead was the high hill, covered with a rumpled quilt of green, and beyond it the grey-green heights and sharp, mist-veiled summits of the island's mountains. He could hear them all right behind him.

"Where is he?"

"There he is! I see white up ahead!"

"He won't be white for long! Come on!"

Gilligan laughed and sprinted for the hill.

The castaways pounded out of the jungle and charged across the grass, shouting and waving. The Skipper was leading the way this time. "Gilligan! By the time I'm done with you you'll need a tsunami to wash the mud off!"

"That's the idea, Skipper," Gilligan murmured.

Mr. Howell was brandishing his mud-encrusted cricket bat like a battle axe. "Gilligan! You're in for a dunking you won't forget, by George!"

The women had hiked up their long, muddy skirts and were flapping along like mud-hens. "My beautiful garden party!" Mrs. Howell cried. "My splendid recital! It took me so long to memorize that poem!"

"A mud-bath is one thing, but not with my clothes on!" shouted Ginger. "Gilligan!"

"Gilligan! You're going to look like the mammoth from the La Brea Tar Pits: complete with tar!" shouted the slim slime-covered figure that ran behind her.

Mary Ann hurried along behind the Professor, clutching her white straw hat to her head. She saw a flash of white shoot up into the hill as Gilligan began his ascent. Turning, she flashed a brief look behind her. The trees still stood and the ground was still dry land, but time was running out. "Run, Gilligan," she whispered. "For all our sakes!"

Gilligan sped up the hill, sneakers fairly flying over the grass. He kept his eyes on the mountain ahead, desperate to reach it, but still had to turn and make certain he was not going too fast. Yes, good – they were stumbling up the hill now, still shouting, and Mary Ann's dainty form was fluttering like a white butterfly behind them. He turned and raced up still further.

"Come back here!"

"You won't get away!

The ground was steep and the grass still slippery from the recent rains, and when Gilligan slipped and nearly fell sprawling, a fierce cheer rose behind him. But he threw out his hands and pushed off the ground again, charging up still higher as he glanced back and saw that his pursuers had gained on him. He couldn't risk another such mistake. If they caught him, he was finished. So were they.

Mary Ann's heart had leapt into her mouth when she saw Gilligan go down. She knew her friends would never actually hurt him, but the last thing any of them needed now was a trip back the mudhole. They had to keep moving. She darted ahead, outdistancing the pack, determined that if Gilligan should fall again she would be there to help him - or to shield him - if need be.

The slope was starting to tell on the castaways. They were getting tired, staggering and slipping and groaning. When Gilligan turned again, he saw with horror that they had actually stopped.

"Hey! What's the matter?" he shouted. There was a flurry of white and Mary Ann raced up beside him. "They're too tired, Gilligan! They can't run anymore!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," the Skipper wheezed. "…not worth it. Got to come down…sometime."

"They've got to run more!" It was time for desperate measures. Gilligan shouted down at the slimy band. "Hey! You know what?"

"What?" came a weary chorus.

"I knew all along there wasn't any ship there!"

Mary Ann stared at Gilligan, aghast.

"And I knew the mud-hole was there too!" he taunted. "That'll teach you! Ha ha! And you always say _my _name will be mud!"

Gilligan saw five pairs of eyes in five muddy faces slowly turn up at him. Gilligan took Mary Ann's hand. "That did it. Now, Mary Ann. As fast as you can!"

They turned and fled up the hill as a war-cry rose behind them that made the wail of the Marubi sound like a Sunday school choir. Up and up they ran, hearts pounding, their white figures brilliant against the emerald green. At last they reached the top of the hill, and as they crested it Gilligan gave a deep groan of dismay.

Mary Ann saw why. The mountain beyond was a nearly sheer wall of hardened lava, crusted over with green bush. There was no way they could even reach it, much less climb it. The only shelter in sight was a small stand of bush and palm trees that clung to the summit of the hill. They had come to the end of the line.

Mary Ann and Gilligan turned to face their pursuers. And over the wild roar of the chase came another roar: the deep, surging roar of water. The young pair's eyes grew wide and they clutched each other instinctively, faces drawn with horror.

The mud-covered Skipper was the first to reach them. When he saw their expressions, he blinked in surprise. Then, in spite of himself, he began to laugh. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you two! What's with those faces? What do I look like, King Kong? Come on, now. You're not in any danger!"

"Oh no?" Mary's face was as white as her sweater. She pointed behind them to the jungle, and the sea.

The castaways turned. Mrs. Howell peered curiously at the vasty deep, lifting her muddy veil with her dripping brown glove. "Thurston dear, what's that great mountain doing just offshore? Why is the top of it all white? Why is it coming towards us?"

"That's not a mountain, Mrs. Howell," whispered Gilligan. "That's a wave."


	11. Chapter 11

It was certainly the size of a mountain, this towering dark blue height, but it foamed white at the top and kept rising, rising, 'til it seemed it would blot out the sun. The shoreline vanished in its black shadow, and still it came. Then the snowy crest came hurtling down, roaring in monstrous, elemental rage.

The castaways screamed and dashed to hide behind the clump of trees. "Hang on to each other!" the Skipper yelled, and the castaways did just that, crouching on the ground as the crest of the great wave smashed over the shore below and a vast surge of foaming, swirling water hurtled over the land, snapping the coconut palms like matchsticks. Up, up the water sped, barrelling logs and boulders before it in a heaving torrent that crushed anything in its path, and still the surge kept rising, rising, submerging the green where the cricket pitch lay and tossing the bamboo table and benches like children's toys. Higher and higher the floodwater rose, the crests of the palm trees disappearing as the foaming vanguard raced ever hungrily towards the hill.

Mary Ann was huddled on the ground in Gilligan's wiry arms, her heart hammering as it had when she had hidden in the root cellar as the tornadoes raged overhead. At least there were his arms this time, though, and they made her feel a little, just a little safer.

Ginger was clinging to the Professor. "I can't swim!" she screamed, watching the sea swallow the land.

"Then hang on to me!" he shouted. Despite his covering of mud, Ginger was convinced the Professor had never looked so handsome.

"Lovey!" Thurston Howell cried. "Twenty-four wonderful years!"

"We'll have twenty four more, Thurston darling!" his wife said, digging in her heels. "Just hang on to me!"

And then…all the world was in the sea as a wall of water roared over the seven castaways. Cold, swirling, unfathomable darkness engulfed them, and they clung mindlessly to the trees and to one another. Their lungs and ears throbbed and their arms ached as they fought the awful strength of the tide. And when the ebb surged backwards, pulled by the sea, Mary Ann and Gilligan felt themselves being swept away by the awful flood, their legs and feet actually lifted off the ground.

But suddenly they felt something else grip them. The Skipper had grabbed the pair by the arms and was holding them fast, gritting his teeth against the tidal force. The flood surged and foamed around them as they flailed and floated, but the Skipper's grasp held. At last Gilligan and Mary Ann felt themselves touch bottom again as the water gushed and slowly lowered, sliding back down the hill to pool momentarily on the green until at last it ebbed back into the smashed ruin of the jungle.

Seven very wet, very sorry looking castaways looked up, astonished to be alive. They sat gasping and shivering in each other's arms, eyes wide with shock, as the water and the last of the mud ran off of them in little streams. Above them, its roots wedged in the treetops, leaned the massive trunk of a huge coconut palm from the jungle below. They looked at it for a moment, and then at last, they turned to look at Gilligan.

The Skipper's hand was still on his soggy first mate's arm. "My gosh," he murmured. "If we'd been down there when that thing hit, we would have been swept out to sea or crushed to bits! Gilligan, little buddy - how did you know?"

Gilligan shivered, his huge blue eyes the biggest part of him. He was still hanging on to Mary Ann, whose brown eyes were glowing with pride beneath the damp tresses of her dark hair. Suddenly they heard a loud cawing sound, and with a flutter of orange and red, the Raggiana Bird of Paradise landed lightly on Gilligan's bent knee.

Gilligan smiled. "Thanks, Rusty. You see, Skipper? It pays to listen to little birds."

******************

_Whew! Just the epilogue left, folks! _


	12. Chapter 12

Gilligan remembered how his kindergarten teacher had scolded him for not colouring inside the lines. But it must be okay, he thought, because God doesn't do it either. The deep gold of the low-lying sun was smeared across the whole horizon, dying the clouds to dark yellow and the mountains to glowing amber. The gold even spilled down the wet beach and glinted in the creaming breakers where Gilligan and the Skipper stood knee-deep, casting their fishing rods into the swirling water. Gilligan tilted the brim of his sailor cap down against the sun's glare and gently lifted his rod. "Boy, Skipper. I never thought a beach could look so friendly again."

"You can say that again, little buddy. The sea's a fickle mistress, all right."

"Not only that - you can't trust her either." Gilligan spun his reel handle backwards, drawing in his line.

The Skipper laughed. "You better get some practice in. You're usually a pretty good fisherman, but you haven't caught a thing all day!"

"Of course I haven't, Skipper." Gilligan pulled the end of his line from the sea and let it dangle. "I didn't put a fly on the hook."

"You didn't?" The Skipper was flummoxed. "Why not?"

"Come on, Skipper. What did we do all day yesterday, and the day before? What are we gonna be eating for the next month?"

Jonas Grumby closed his eyes and nodded in understanding. "Salt fish. Of course!"

"Exactly. How many crates of fish did you and I salt away and put in that cave?"

"Oh, please, I don't even want to think about it. Mind you, it was pretty easy work just walking around and picking fish up off the ground. We've got enough salt flatfish, bass and mackerel to last t'ill doomsday."

"Enough firewood and palm fronds too. Though it was a shame about the trees," Gilligan murmured sadly, looking back to the gold-fired beach where the snapped palms lay strewn about, their tufts hanging like limp hair.

"Mmmm." The Skipper surveyed the damage as well as he absently reeled in his own line. "Don't get too down about it, little buddy. At least our side of the island wasn't hit and our springs weren't contaminated. And everybody's okay." He glanced over at his slight first mate and looked at him searchingly. "Thanks to you, that is."

Gilligan smiled shyly as he cast his line again, steadying himself as a small wave nearly knocked him over. "Thanks to Rusty and the birds, you mean, Skipper. And Mrs. Howell's poem!"

The Skipper laughed and shook his head. "Mrs. Howell's poem. I can't believe she insisted on reciting it, sitting up there on the hill with all of us drenched!"

"She said it took her a long time to learn it, so I guess she wanted to make sure she didn't have to learn it again! Boy, she sure got the dramatic effect out of it, didn't she, Skipper?"

"I'll say. Didn't take much imagination to picture it." The Skipper chuckled fondly. "And then she insisted on trying to make us tea, but there wasn't a dry piece of kindling for miles! Poor Mrs. Howell."

"Mmmm."

They fished for several minutes in companionable silence as the creamy surf boomed and the seagulls cried overhead.

After a few moments, the Skipper spoke again. "Say, what's with you and coconut cream pies lately? You tired of them or something?"

"'Course not, Skipper. What do you mean?"

"Just that Mary Ann's been making you mango tarts ever since the tsunami."

"Oh." Gilligan laughed. "She makes them for Rusty, not me. She likes it when he does his crazy little dance for her."

The Skipper shook his head again. "What a character. Well, that bird's no chicken, I'll give him that. And neither is Mary Ann! She really went to bat for you."

"She sure did." Gilligan smiled gently for a moment before that smile morphed into a wicked grin. "And she sews real swell tea cosies – especially the blue ones with the little buttercups on them! Gee, Skipper, I don't think I'll ever forget how pretty you looked!"

"Is that so?" The Skipper turned to his sniggering first mate with a wicked grin of his own. "So you think I'm a good catcher, eh? Well, I want to tell you, I'm not a bad pitcher, either. Do you know what I'm going to go back to camp and tell them, Gilligan?"

"You want to throw a tea party?" Gilligan asked innocently.

"You just don't give up, do you?" Abruptly, the Skipper grabbed Gilligan's fishing rod, splashed his way to shore and tossed both rods onto the sand. When he returned his grin was as wide as his outstretched arms and grasping hands. "I'm going to say that the only catch I made today was so puny I had to throw it back in the ocean."

Gilligan backed up, eyes huge. "Oh, Skipper, you wouldn't…"

"Ready or not, here I come!" With a lightning lunge the big man sprang forward. Gilligan yelped and tried to make a dash for the open sea but the water slowed him down. A moment later the Skipper grabbed Gilligan around the waist and hoisted him up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Gilligan yelled and struggled, but with a massive arm around his back and another pinning his knees, he could only flail helplessly.

"Skipper!" Gilligan was laughing wildly, kicking his feet and half-heartedly pounding on the Skipper's broad back. "Put me down!"

"I intend to, little buddy!" The Skipper moved out into deeper water. "Any minute now!"

"_Skipper!_"

Ignoring him, the Skipper burst into song. "_Anchors aweigh, my boys! Anchors aweigh!"_

Gilligan was laughing too hard to sing.

The Skipper was in waist deep by now. As he felt the Skipper's grip relax, Gilligan lunged down and gripped the Skipper's belt. At the same moment the Skipper removed his hand from Gilligan's back and bent forwards. "Come on, sea. You missed him last time! _Doop!_"

The maneuver didn't go quite as planned as the shift in weight threw the big man off balance and they both tumbled headlong into the waves. After a few seconds of floundering and flailing Gilligan surfaced a good way closer to shore. He laughed as the Skipper came sputtering to the surface like a breaching whale.

"How's the water, Skipper?"

"Just fine, Gilligan!" The Skipper pulled his sodden cap onto his head and fished Gilligan's equally soggy one out of the water. He staggered up to his first mate, still laughing, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, my gosh. What'll we tell them when we get back to camp?"

"There was another tsunami?"

"Sure. Or the Admiral fell overboard. Whatever you say." The Skipper slapped the sopping wet sailor's cap on Gilligan's dark hair. "You're the star I steer by, little buddy. Don't ever forget it."

"Thanks, Skipper."

The sun burnished the two men as golden as the sky as they turned and splashed towards shore.

*********

Mrs. Howell exclaimed with delight at the fine spray of lacy red feathers in Mary Ann's favourite sunhat. "Oh, they're lovely, my dear! However did you come by them?"

"Oh, I just found them, Mrs. Howell," said Mary Ann.

"They're simply divine!"

After her friend had gone, Mary Ann pulled out the little note she had found on her cooking range that morning tied to the spray of feathers.

"_From Rusty and me. (Don't worry – he's just moulting!) Thanks for the tarts, Mary Ann, and for sticking up for us. You're one in a million."_

She smiled, fingering the note as she had once touched the shimmering wing of a wild bird. "So are you, Gilligan. So are you."

.


End file.
